


Transposition

by methylviolet10b



Series: Transposition [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Other, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...For most unfortunately, I am the case. The Adventure of the Abducted Doctor. And at this moment, despite all my efforts, I must admit that a happy conclusion to my tale does not seem likely..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for rabidsamfan, who kindly sent a plot bunny out into the universe to eat my brain. She wrote a drabble that put Watson in a fix, and then sent it out for adoption. I did my level best to get him there and back again.

_Transposition: In chess, a sequence of moves that results in a position that can also be reached by another, usually more common, sequence of moves._   


##  Prologue: Game Plan  

In which Dr. Watson finds himself in an unexpected spot.

_Watson’s Journal:_

In all my previous recordings of the remarkable cases of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I myself have always played a lesser role in his adventures. That is as it should be, as I have nothing like his deductive powers and extraordinary gifts. But now I find myself recording a case wherein I play all too central a part. Indeed, I am writing this with some urgency, and blessing the habit that caused me to tuck a journal and a mechanical pencil into my inside coat pocket. Without that serendipitous chance, I might never have had the means (however slight) for anyone to know anything of what has happened to me. Writing this now in the cramped privacy of my prison might be my only opportunity.

For most unfortunately, I _am_ the case. The Adventure of the Abducted Doctor. And at this moment, despite all my efforts, I must admit that a happy conclusion to my tale does not seem likely. I might not have Holmes’ talents for observation, but even I can tell that Junian King will not set me free voluntarily, whether my poor friend agrees to his demands or no. I have seen it in his eyes. I know the danger I am in. And my chances for escape, unaided, are slim.

I have faith in my friend’s character. I believe he will refuse to cooperate. In fact I pray to God that Holmes resists him, no matter what the consequences might be to my own self. For whatever doom awaits me, knowing that Holmes had fallen prey to this monster’s plans would be a thousand times more horrible than the worst torments King’s twisted mind can devise.


	2. English Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Inspector Lestrade finds himself in an unusual position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: For this chapter, suspense, implied badness

##  English Opening 

 

In which Lestrade finds himself in an unusual position.  
  
 _Inspector Lestrade:_

It’s a rare event these days when I find myself in the company of Mr. Holmes without the good Doctor also at hand. It seems like you hardly ever see the one without the other somewhere close about. They go together in my mind now like jam and bread, or a policeman’s darbies and whistle. All perfectly fine things on their own, but better in their proper pairs, at least by my way of thinking.

So I was a little surprised when I stopped in at Baker Street, Constable Collins in tow, and found Mr. Holmes, but no sign of Dr. Watson. Mr. Withby, the crown solicitor, was already seated on the settee. He’s not much bigger a man than I am, but he certainly took up the space, half-sprawled against the cushions as he was, and his notes taking up the rest. From the rumpled appearance of his coat and the ink smudges on his cuffs, he’d been there for some time, which made me wonder if he might not have had other matters to discuss with the consulting detective, something he wanted to say without the police to hand.

That happens rather more often than I’d like to admit, but I try not to let myself feel bitter about it. Goodness knows I consult with the man often enough on my own; why should I resent it when others do the same?

With Mr. Holmes wrapped in his dressing-gown and perched in his usual chair, that left the splintery old basket chair and the Doctor’s armchair as the only immediate seating options, short of dragging over one of the wooden chairs from the dining-table. Which I was just about to do, but Mr. Holmes anticipated me. He inclined his head in my direction and waved his pipe towards the rather worn armchair opposite the fireplace from his. “Pray make yourself comfortable, Inspector,” he said, politely enough. “You look chilled, and we have much to discuss.”

I was indeed, but I couldn’t have told you how he knew it. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t shivering or anything obvious like that. But I wasn’t about to ask. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” I gingerly sat down in the Doctor’s armchair, feeling very much out of place. The warmth of the fire was very welcome, but everything about the chair spoke of another man’s long use. The cushions were adapted to a larger man’s frame, and the smell of the Doctor’s preferred tobacco was noticeably stronger than anywhere else in the room.

One corner of Mr. Holmes’ mouth quirked up around the stem of his pipe as he looked at me knowingly. Although I’ve a better-than-average policeman’s mask when it comes to hiding my thoughts, I’m sure he could read my unease, maybe from the set of my collar or some such nonsense. Those eyes of his don’t miss much. Mercifully, he said nothing about it, but turned his attention back to the solicitor. Soon enough, I forgot all about everything except the details of the case for the Ponsonby-Smith trial.

We must have sat there for an hour or more, smoking and going over our individual notes, preparing to testify when the trial started in a few days’ time. I was mostly comfortable by then, lulled by the familiar questions of timing and evidence and the interplay of ideas. Every so often, though, Mr. Holmes would turn towards me, and I could see him hesitate just slightly before he continued on with what he’d been about to say. Apparently he wasn’t used to anyone sitting in the Doctor’s place except the Doctor any more than I was. Probably a great deal less, really. I wondered how long it had been since anyone else had sat in this chair.

We’d just about talked the matter into the ground when Mrs. Hudson came in with a tea tray, which was very welcome. She made a face at all the smoke. I can’t say I blamed her, since it was near as thick a fog inside as out, although at least the warm brownish haze inside the glass wasn’t clammy like the drizzly, chill yellow murk filling the streets below. She also turned up the gas, which made me realise just how much time had passed.

“Shall I open a window, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Hudson asked pointedly.

Mr. Holmes shook his head, a thin smile marking his lips as he took one last puff on his pipe. “Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Hudson, but I shall see to it.” He uncoiled his long limbs from his armchair and rose to his feet.

While the detective opened a window, Mrs. Hudson kindly inquired of the rest of us whether we preferred tea or coffee. The woman is a treasure, there is no doubt about it. How a nice, quiet woman who keeps her silver as polished as she does tolerates a man like Mr. Holmes as a tenant is one of the world’s great mysteries. Constable Collins made her smile by practically inhaling his cup of coffee. In fact, he finished it before she could finish asking Mr. Whitby whether he preferred coffee or tea.

“Neither, I’m afraid,” he answered, looking at his pocket-watch. “I don’t believe we need discuss things any further, and I really must return to my office. I’m overdue.”

A look of alarm passed over Collins’ face as he too took note of the time. “Inspector?”

“Go on,” I told him, understanding his unspoken request. “I’ve a few things I’d like to discuss with Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s as much as my life is worth to be late home again, with the missus in the state she’s in.”

I knew this all too well; the constable had practically talked my ear off on the cab ride to Baker Street about his wife and their impending firstborn. “Well, that wouldn’t do. I’ve far too much on my plate as it is to want to add your murder to the list. My best to your wife.”

Mr. Holmes came back from the window just in time for Mr. Whitby to shake his hand in farewell. He and the constable left together, talking of sharing a cab as far as the station. Mrs. Hudson handed the detective a cup of coffee and gave a meaningful look to the plate of sandwiches on the tea-tray before sweeping out of the sitting-room, closing the door behind her.

Mr. Holmes gave me a wry look. “Have a sandwich, Inspector. I take it that you have something else you wish to discuss with me?”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been looking into what seems an ordinary-enough string of burglaries, but there are one or two peculiarities…”

“Then let us make ourselves comfortable, and you can tell me all about them.” Mr. Holmes did not take any food for himself, but merely sipped his coffee as he watched me fix a plate. There was quite a lot of food on the tray, far more than Mr. Holmes would ever eat on his own.

“Where is Dr. Watson?” I asked curiously, reminded again of his absence. “I hope he’s well?”

A fleeting expression crossed Mr. Holmes’ face, so fast I couldn’t make out what kind of look it was. He shrugged slightly and raised his coffee cup. “He’s well enough, thank you. Watson has temporarily deserted our cases for medicine. One of his fellow-practitioners was struck down last week with this wretched influenza that’s making the rounds, and Watson volunteered to cover his practice while he recovers.”

I grimaced. “Nearly a quarter of the Yard is out with it right now,” I sympathized. “Nasty while it lasts, but fortunately most seem to get better quickly enough. I hope Dr. Watson’s friend hasn’t developed any complications.”

A quick smile lightened his features. “No, he’s recovered well enough from what Watson has told me. This is his last day covering his friend’s practice. In fact, I expect his return at any time now.”

“Then I’ll try not to keep you too long with –“ The door-bell rang loudly just at that moment, startling me. Before I could start over, the bell rang again, even more violently than the first time. “Does that happen often?” I asked instead.

“Often enough,” Mr. Holmes said calmly, but I noticed a slight crease form between his eyebrows. “It is, I admit, a trifle late in the day for such occurrences, but it is not unheard-of. It usually heralds someone overly anxious to retain my services, but occasionally it is just an exceptionally eager messenger boy.”

Once again I wondered why Mrs. Hudson tolerated Mr. Holmes as a lodger. Certainly there could be no peace in the household with him as a tenant. “If it is a client, I can return at another time.”

“Thank you, Inspector, that – “ He stopped and listened to something. “That is Mrs. Hudson on the stair, alone. Almost certainly a message, then, and no need for you to leave.” He turned his attention towards the sitting-room door just as it started to open. “What is it, Mrs. – “ He checked, and his eyes sharpened as something about his landlady seized his attention. “Mrs. Hudson?”

She looked calm enough, but even I could tell that she was several shades paler than she’d been minutes before. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, but there’s something downstairs that I think you should see right away.” Her voice was unnaturally flat, and her hands gripped each other so tightly I could see her knuckles blanch.

Mr. Holmes said not a word, but set down his coffee-cup with a clatter and vanished out the sitting-room door, his dressing-gown fluttering behind him. I followed right on his heels, clattering down the seventeen steps, an unnamed dread congealing in my gut. Every policeman’s instinct I had told me something was seriously amiss. Even so, it took me a couple of seconds to spot the cause of Mrs. Hudson’s distress. The front door looked normal enough, as did the usual clutter nearby. It wasn’t until Mr. Holmes crouched down next to a very familiar-looking bag that the penny dropped.

That was Dr. Watson’s medical bag. I recognized it even without seeing the “JHW” engraved on the brass plate. A corner of a piece of paper protruded untidily from its closed top, something very unlike the Doctor to have done.

Almost as unlikely as seeing the bag without seeing Dr. Watson beside it. If the bag was here – and it was – where then was the Doctor?

“Where did you find it?” Mr. Holmes never looked up, didn’t take his eyes away from his examination of the bag. His normally smooth tenor bit off the words like chips of ice. For a wild moment, I thought he was talking to me.

“On the front stoop, Mr. Holmes.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice came from behind me, and I realised that she too had followed Mr. Holmes downstairs. “It was just sitting there when I opened the door. I didn’t see anyone. I brought it inside before I noticed anything wrong.”

Mr. Holmes froze in the act of carefully removing the paper from Dr. Watson’s bag. He turned his head and narrowed his eyes at his landlady. “And that was? What did you notice, Mrs. Hudson, other than Dr. Watson’s bag appearing anonymously on the doorstep?”

Silently, Mrs. Hudson unclasped her hands and extended one of them so we could see. There was a reddish stripe across the palm and on three of her fingers. “From the bag handle. It felt sticky.”

It certainly looked like blood. Mr. Holmes’ lips set into a thin, grim line. He inhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t say another word. Instead, he turned his attention back to the bag and the extraction of the piece of paper.

I thought he’d frozen before, but that was nothing to the stillness that overtook him as his eyes scanned the single unfolded sheet. All at once he turned into a creature of ice and granite, locked into a grey, grim gargoyle crouched over that paper. I’d never seen him react so powerfully to anything, not in all the years I’d known him. Craning my neck, I caught a glimpse of what was on that paper in his hand. As I read the cut-newspaper words, I felt my own blood congeal in my veins.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/methylviolet10b/pic/000011f4/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted April 29th, 2011


	3. Queen's Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Watson recounts his capture and meets Junian King.

## Queen's Gambit 

 

_Watson’s Journal:_

Holmes always admonishes his clients to begin their stories at the beginning. I am afraid, however, that my first conscious impressions of my abduction were not of the beginning, but rather after the act was well underway. I will write down everything I can here, and hope I have the time and freedom to make sense of my thoughts and impressions later.

In one sense I was fortunate. Air from a broken carriage window woke me rather sooner than I might have otherwise. My first sensations were of cold gusts blowing over my face in a steady stream, dragging me back from the blackness. It was a long, unsteady journey, for my body felt disconnected, an entirely deadened thing separate from my fog-shrouded mind. For a long while I could not feel any of my limbs, or remember anything at all, or even open my eyes. But the steady draft did not falter, and eventually the constant breeze carried away enough of my lethargy that I could start to think.

_Drugged_ , was my first coherent thought, as my sluggish mind started to make sense of the odd detachment that held me paralyzed. _I’ve been drugged. But how? Why?_

Some instinct held me still as thought and sensation started to return. My body swayed, and even though my eyes remained closed, I recognized the jolting as movement. _A hansom. No, a carriage of some kind. And someone is sitting next to me, crushing me up against one of the walls. I’m not alone in here._

“Ain’t it stopped bleeding yet?” An unknown voice came dimly to my ears.

“No, it ain’t stopped bleeding yet! I think he broke my nose!” That voice was muffled oddly and the garbled words were difficult to understand.

“Happen that’s the least of your worries if you’ve damaged the goods,” a third voice chimed in, the rough accent thick with scorn. “Keep your kerchief on it, and stop talking so much, and maybe it’ll stop.”

_At least three, then_ … A memory welled up out of the haze of my befuddled mind. _Five. There were five of them waiting for me._

More memories returned in a rush. They had the advantage of surprise and numbers, but their initial attack had been almost tentative, more of a grab than an assault. I had fought back as best as I could, dropping my bag and hitting two of them with my walking-stick sufficiently hard to double them over. It had then turned into something of a free-for-all. I had almost won free when the biggest of the lot managed to grab me from behind and wrench my arms backwards. My bad shoulder nearly undid me with the pain. While I struggled, another ruffian dragged a cloth from his pocket and brought it towards my face. One whiff of its fumes and I knew my danger was extreme. I threw my head back solidly into the face behind me and heard a howl of outrage. His arms loosened, and I half-twisted free. I might have escaped, but my weak leg betrayed me, and I staggered. Before I could regain my balance, I was seized again. A fist clipped my jaw, stunning me. That time there was no escaping the cloth. A well-placed blow to my stomach ensured that I inhaled no matter how hard I tried to resist, and the chloroform did the rest.

_Chloroform._ From the way I felt, they must have given me an extra-heavy dose. It was a miracle I was even conscious. The fact that I _couldn’t_ feel my jaw, or my abused stomach, or the undoubted pounding headache I would have as a result of my drugging, all told me that I was still well under its influence. Still, the fresh air and jolt of adrenaline from the remembered fight gave me strength. With an effort, I managed to open my eyes a fraction, just enough to see what I might without alerting my unwanted companions to my return to consciousness.

The carriage interior was dark. The side window-blinds were all drawn, but my slumped angle against the side had displaced one of them just enough that I could see out through a small gap between the material and the glass. In fact, I had a much better view outside the carriage than in; my head was turned away from the interior, lolling limply towards the wall.

I was still in London. That much was clear. What part, I wasn’t sure. I did my best to watch for some sign or landmark, all the while trying to gather my wits. Could I try to wrench open the carriage door and escape?

No. I still couldn’t feel most of my limbs, and what little sensation had returned told me my wrists were bound in front of me. I wasn’t as sure of my ankles, but the angle of my knees suggested my legs were tied as well.

The carriage turned, and a lucky gleam of gaslight from a streetlamp caught on a street sign despite the yellow fog. Little Camden Road. I made note of it, orienting myself as best as I could, not having Holmes’ encyclopaedic knowledge of every London byway. I was a long way from where I’d been when they’d grabbed me, and even further from Baker Street.

“Almost there,” one of my abductors mumbled. “He awake?”

A thick finger jabbed into my side. I managed to not react in any way, and was rewarded with a derisive grunt. “Nah, still out flat.”

“That’s all to the good. Makes delivery all the easier.”

The carriage rolled to a stop behind a row of houses. I saw a number, lit by yet another lamp: 11.

_Eleven Little Camden Road. Well, at least I know where I am, if not why, or how I’m to get away from here._

I wanted desperately to try and escape as soon as the door opened, but I realised how very little chance I stood in my current state. Although my mind felt far more awake, my limbs still felt torpid at best and numb at worst. And as I’d anticipated, my head had started to throb unpleasantly. I am a man of action, but experiences in the Army and with Holmes had helped curb my innate tendencies to act without thinking. My best chance was to lie still, learn what I could, and hope for opportunity. Accordingly, I let myself be hauled out of the carriage, carried into the house through the servants’ entrance, and up the stairs to the first floor like a roll of carpet. I only risked the occasional glance around through lowered eyelids. The pitching motion of being carried by two men made me feel quite ill. By the time they laid me down on a settee in a well-appointed but very normal-looking sitting room, I was again halfway stupefied by the combination of nausea, headache, and lingering effects of the chloroform. The brightly-lit room stabbed at my aching eyes, even though they were mostly closed. I let my lids fall shut.

“That’s enough, Seely.” Unlike the other voices, this new voice was extremely well-cultured. The light tenor spoke the dismissive words with a crisp, upper-class accent. “Now untie him at once. I hope you had no trouble?”

“Some, sir,” the most scornful of the voices from the carriage answered, all traces of derision erased. I felt the ropes loosen and fall away from my ankles as the man spoke again. “He fought like the devil for all that he looks so mild and he’s got that limp. He near enough broke Beecher’s nose for him, and two more of the lads won’t forget him anytime soon, either.”

“Interesting. I did warn you that he might prove a challenge, but that is more than I expected. I trust he wasn’t damaged in any way?”

“No more than we could help, sir.” To my ear, Seely sounded nervous. I felt tugging on my wrists, and then the tie fell free. “We treated him with kid gloves on, as ordered.”

“And the bag?”

“Sent off to be delivered as ordered, and there are three watching the house.”

“Very good, Seely. Now kindly resume your post. You understand what you are to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

I sensed more than heard Seely move away from me. I did not hear anyone else approach, but all of a sudden fumes from spirits of ammonia burned my nostrils. My head jerked back reflexively, and I only barely kept myself from trying to jump off the settee. I groaned, but did not open my eyes.

“Come along, Dr. Watson,” that light, cultured voice coaxed. “Time to wake up.”

Another whiff of the fumes, and my head truly started pounding as my gorge rose. I flinched and opened my eyes. “Wha…?” I moaned, only half feigning my confusion. A man crouched in front of me, his face nearly level with my own head where it rested propped up on the arm of the settee. When he saw me open my eyes, he gave me an utterly charming, open smile, pulled back the bottle he’d held beneath my nose, and rose to his feet.

“There you are. Easy does it, Doctor. Take a few deep breaths. I imagine you’re feeling unwell at the moment, but that should pass. There is water on the table here, if you’re thirsty.”

I blinked and then nodded cautiously, not trusting my voice. The man turned away from me, and I hastily tried to sit up. Too hastily. The room spun around me, and I had no choice but to lean against the back of the settee for support.

The unknown man tsked as he returned to my side, a half-full glass of water in his hand. “No sudden moves if you please, Dr. Watson. I doubt you are up to them just yet, and in any case, they are not conducive to your continued good health.”

I could hardly argue the point. Not only had the attempt left me exhausted and dizzy, it had also won me the full attention of the two other men in the extremely modern, fashionably-decorated room. One man was one of the ruffians from my abduction – Seely – looking even more threatening now that he had a pistol pointed directly at me. The other was a stranger, quietly and soberly dressed. He might have been a servant, except for the revolver he had aimed at my heart. “So I see,” I said quietly, and accepted the glass of water from the man in front of me. I noted that he took particular care to remain out of the line of fire. “Thank you.”

The man smiled, clearly amused at my instinctive courtesy. “You are quite welcome, Doctor.”

I took a tiny sip of the water, tasting it carefully on my tongue. My throat was terribly dry, but I had no desire to quench my thirst at the cost of ingesting some other drug. The water tasted normal enough, with just a hint of lemon. I risked a second small swallow. “You know my name, but I’m afraid I have no idea of yours. Have we met?”

“Dear me, I beg your pardon,” the man chuckled. “I know so much about you, I had quite forgotten that we have not been introduced. My name is Junian King.”

The name meant no more to me than his face. I was certain that I would remember either if I had encountered them before. It was an odd first name, but no stranger than the appearance of the man before me. He was average in both height and build, but everything else about him seemed extreme. He was dressed as a gentleman, quietly but in excellent taste, but the dark shades of his clothing only emphasized his unusual colouring. His fine, fair complexion would have looked more at home on a young girl; I had never seen a grown man with such perfect alabaster and rose skin. Like me, he wore a moustache in the military manner, but the combed-back hair framing his square features was long enough to brush his shoulders, and his sideburns nearly reached his jaw. His hair was so blond it was almost white. Most extraordinary of all were his eyes. His left eye was a pale green, almost celadon in shade. His right eye was the deepest, darkest brown imaginable. Both eyes were fixed on my face with an amused awareness that nonetheless sent a chill up my spine, as the sight of the revolvers aimed at me had not done.

“Under the circumstances, I cannot claim that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. King,” I told him. “Would you care to explain why you have brought me here?”

His fair, almost invisible eyebrows rose. “I take it you’ve never heard of me?”

I shook my head, then winced as the motion made my headache even worse. “No.”

A frown creased his forehead, and then one broad hand shot out so quickly I had no time to react. Strong, icy fingers lightly gripped my jaw, and his other hand barely brushed the area where I had been punched. There was nothing at all painful in the touch, and yet something in me instinctively shuddered away from it.

“You’re raising a bruise there. Does it hurt?” He released my jaw, and yet he remained oddly close to me, avid interest in his odd eyes.

I did my best to hide my revulsion as my mind finally shook off enough of its cobwebs to recognize what was in front of me. There was nothing feline about Junian King, and yet the look in his eyes was exactly that of a stalking cat intent on drawing out its kill. As it is in a cat’s nature to toy with its prey, so it was with King. “Not yet.”

“All the same, I will arrange for an ice pack. I find that the timely application of ice often greatly reduces swelling from such injuries. Don’t you agree?”

“It can. Arnica is also useful in the treatment of minor bruises and strains, and is more generally available.” I kept my voice level, almost pedantic.

“Of course.” A thin smile creased his face, but did not reach his eyes. He stepped away from me and sat down on a nearby chair. I was relieved by his moving away, but not at all reassured by his continued study of me. “As to your earlier question, Doctor, my interest in obtaining your acquaintance, as you put it, was purely secondary. Your presence here, while gratifying, is only a side benefit. My true objective is the… Well, let me just say that I require the _undivided attention_ of your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Some of what I felt at those words must have shown on my face despite my best efforts, for King laughed merrily. “I see you understand me.”

That such a creature should use me against my friend was intolerable. I forced down my roiling emotions with an effort and spoke quietly. “Perhaps it is the after-effects of the chloroform, but I must admit I do not understand how detaining me achieves your goal.”

Both King’s eyebrows arched, and he pursed his lips in incredulous disbelief. “Don’t you? Oh come now, Dr. Watson. You surely cannot expect me to believe that a man who willingly throws all of his energies into solving other people’s problems will not do all that and more, when confronted with a conundrum rather closer to home. You are his friend, after all.”

“Maybe, although I think you overestimate my importance,” I allowed. “Even if you do provoke him, I expect you will find, as others have, that Holmes’ attention is rather more dangerous than you know. I doubt you will enjoy it.”

My calm words appeared to delight my captor rather more than otherwise. “On the contrary, my good Doctor, I expect I will enjoy it very much. But time will tell. And speaking of time…” He drew out a pocket-watch from his vest and opened it. He made a show of studying its face. “Dear me, yes. While I have enjoyed our chat, I do have a few other matters that I must attend to. I’m afraid I must ask you to rise so that I can show you to your room, but never fear; we can continue our conversation over dinner. I dine very late, but I believe you will find the experience well worth the delay. I keep an excellent chef.”

I rose to my feet with an effort. “I hope it will not be too formal. I’m afraid I somehow neglected to bring appropriate attire.” I spoke dryly, hoping to cover the pain the movement cost me. My leg had stiffened considerably, and my shoulder was not much better.

King’s mismatched eyes gleamed as he watched my every move. “For such charming company, I am happy to waive all formalities. Through the door, please. Osborne, lead the way, and mind you pay attention to our guest. Seely, follow behind him.”

I limped forward a few paces towards the door and marked how the revolvers followed my every move. “I’m afraid I will slow you considerably like this. I don’t suppose my walking-stick made the journey here along with me?”

King’s eyelids drooped dangerously. “It did, but alas, I am afraid I cannot give it to you. You’re rather more proficient with it than I am comfortable with. You will just have to do the best you can without it.”

I shrugged and staggered onwards. As Osborne led me on my halting progress through the house, his gun never wavering from my front even as Seely’s pressed into my back, I did my best to notice details, anything that might help me then or later. Unfortunately, the only thing that really caught my attention was how very normal this house seemed. A household with money, electrified, and with a definite feminine touch in places, but nothing truly out of the ordinary. No exits except down the stairs. Certainly nothing that indicated that a villain resided there. By the time I reached the top of the second flight of servants’ stairs, I was aware of little else but the increased throbbing from my bruises, the deep ache from my overtaxed leg, and the sickening pain of my post-chloroform headache.

“Here you are, Dr. Watson. I apologize for the various deficiencies in your room, but I’m sure you will understand.”

The attic room was little more than a storage closet. The ceiling was so low that I had to crouch to pass through the door, and could not stand upright once inside. The room had no windows, was so narrow I could stand in the centre and touch each side wall with my outstretched arms. Its sole furnishings were a narrow cot, bolted to the floor, a chamber-pot beneath it, and a drab bowl and ewer on the floor in one corner.

Faced with two revolvers, I had no choice but to enter its small confines. “I have seen worse,” I murmured. “And shortly I shall not be seeing this, unless you intend to provide a candle.”

“But of course you have. You were in the Army, weren’t you?” Something about my captor’s tone made me look at him sharply, just in time to see something dark and ugly flash across his face. Whatever it was, it passed in a moment, and King returned to his eerily affable self. “Osborne will bring you a candle along with the ice pack we discussed. Now I must leave you, but I will see you soon. Do try to get some rest.” King closed the door almost as soon as he spoke those last words, and the room plunged into darkness. I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then footsteps moving away. I was alone.

Blindly, I made my way to the cot and levered myself down. Perhaps I should have waited by the door, but I had no real belief in Osborne’s return with any such items. I was wrong. In less time than I would have expected, I heard his step, and shortly found myself in possession of a kerchief-wrapped bit of ice and a tallow candle in a flimsy tin holder. Luxuries indeed, locked and trapped as I was in this attic cell. The ice helped soothe my jaw and headache, and the candle allowed me to write, which settled my mind. Then there was nothing to do but wait. Rest was out of the question; I had no desire to be caught napping. I only hoped that the next time I saw Junian King, I would be able to meet my enemy with more wit and energy than I had in our first meeting.


	4. English Defence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Inspector Lestrade makes an offer.

## English Defence

 

 

_Inspector Lestrade:_

“What the devil!” I did not mean to swear aloud, but the sight of that note sent all thoughts of Mrs. Hudson clean out of my head.

“The devil indeed,” Mr. Holmes muttered. His face was still set like flint, but he rose up out of his crouch as smooth and quick as any cat. He rolled up the note and placed it in the pocket of his dressing gown. “Mrs. Hudson, are you certain you saw no-one when you answered the door?”

“I did look about, particularly when I realised what it was, but I didn’t see anyone.” Mrs. Hudson’s face was white, but she sounded as no-nonsense as ever. “There’s a fog out, but not so thick as I wouldn’t have noticed if there were anyone close by.”

“The fog, yes.” Mr. Holmes glanced up at the fanlight window over the front door. What he expected to see from where he was, I’d no idea, but evidently he saw enough to frustrate him. “No, not near enough fog at all. We could be watched from any number of locations along the street tonight, and undoubtedly are.”

 _Stay inside_. That portion of the note suddenly made more sense. “Your house is being watched.”

Mr. Holmes gave me a look of pure disgust before bending back over Dr. Watson’s bag, poring over it as if the leather could tell him the location of his friend. “Of course it is.”

I supposed I deserved his scorn, for it was perfectly obvious after the fact, but I didn’t let that distract me from my thought. “They’ve got an infernal amount of cheek, then, delivering this while you still have a Yard Inspector in the place.” I’m not an overly proud man, but the idea of abductors so blatantly disregarding the presence of a police inspector angered me.

Those long fingers froze in their inspection, and a sudden, faraway expression overtook Mr. Holmes’ face. I’ve seen him with that particular look dozens of times, usually right before he pops out with something that at first you think he couldn’t possibly know, and yet nearly always turns out to be the truth. I held my breath, waiting. I didn’t have to wait long.

“They don’t know that you’re here.”

That wasn’t at all what I had expected him to say. “I beg your pardon?”

Usually nothing irritates Mr. Holmes faster than when you fail to follow one of his thoughts, but this time he hardly seemed to hear me, intent as he was on his own ideas. “They saw two people leave in a cab. They must have seen two people arrive in a cab, so they’ve been watching the house at least that long. But they must _not_ have been watching the house when Whitby arrived, or been able to see well enough to tell the difference between him and you when he left the house with Collins.”

Now that he’d said it, I could see it as plainly as if I’d watched it all with my own eyes. “You’re right,” I breathed. “They don’t know I’m here. Well, there’s a piece of luck.”

I suddenly found myself on the receiving end of Mr. Holmes’ full attention. “What do you mean?”

I snorted. “Do you think I’m just going to twiddle my thumbs in a situation like this? They’ve told _you_ to do nothing except stay put and wait, Mr. Holmes. They didn’t say a word about _my_ doing nothing.”

“What exactly is it that you propose to do, Inspector?” Mr. Holmes’ voice was soft, but something in his tone raised the hackles on the back of my neck. “You cannot leave here at the moment without risking being seen, any more than I can. And at the moment, you have no official report of any crime, or any evidence to follow. Nor are your colleagues at the Yard likely to prove helpful at this juncture, even if we could contact them without giving the alarm – ” He cut himself off abruptly, but not before I heard the tension in his voice wind higher with each syllable.

My mind raced. I’m not a genius, but neither am I the simpleton Mr. Holmes sometimes likes to suggest that I am. I knew this was an ugly situation. I’ve seen my fair share of snatches over my career, and they rarely end well. I also knew, without needing to be told, that Mr. Holmes wasn’t likely to pay any attention to what might or might not be legal. Not now, not with the Doctor missing, almost certainly in the hands of villains, probably hurt (from the blood on the bag), possibly already dead. If he _was_ dead – I stopped myself from thinking about what might happen then. Time enough to worry about that later, if things should come to such a horrible pass. In the meantime I had a decision to make. Except that as soon as I thought it, I knew I’d already made up my mind. “You know, I think you’re wrong,” I heard myself say, sounding very calm.

“About what?” Mr. Holmes snapped.

“I think Inspector Lestrade did leave with Constable Collins. In fact, I imagine he’s on his way home right now.” I nodded slowly to myself. “Unfortunately I don’t think he’s feeling all that well. I suspect he might be coming down with a touch of that influenza. Poor chap probably won’t be able to make it back to the Yard for a couple of days, most likely.” Privately, I hoped that I could find a way of sending an excuse to the Yard sometime before midday tomorrow, or there’d be hell to pay with the Superintendent over not reporting my “illness.” I’d face that music when and if it played, and hope that was the worst tune I might have to dance to. I knew very well that failing to report in might be the least cause I could face for dismissal, given the choice I was making. I fixed Mr. Holmes with a steady look, the same one I use when I’m dealing with reluctant witnesses. The one that tells them in no uncertain terms that _I_ know what happened, so they might as well come across with the true story. _Come on, Mr. Holmes,_ I thought to myself as I watched for any reaction to my words. _You know what I’m offering, but it’s up to you to accept it._

For his part, Mr. Holmes gave me a long, unmoving, unblinking stare. His eyes got that distant look again, and then a tinge of colour appeared along his cheekbones. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought that I might have just made Mr. Holmes _blush_. Before I could truly wrap my mind around that staggering impossibility, the man stepped closer to me, looming over me with every inch of his height.

“How remiss of me not to have noticed,” he murmured. “Poor fellow, I hope he does not suffer too much under his malady.” His grey eyes flicked to meet mine. “It’s a pity you missed meeting him just now. I’m sure he’d like you; any friend of Doctor Watson’s is a friend of his. And he is a man of remarkable qualities.”

Now it was my turn to fight a blush. It was hardly direct, but all the same I don’t think I’d ever had so plain a compliment from the man in all our years of working together. “Some other time,” I muttered.

“Indeed.” He gave me one more searching look, and then he was all himself again. He spun around, stooped, and carefully lifted up Dr. Watson’s bag from the edges, not the handles. “In the meanwhile, if you would care to join me upstairs, I believe we have a great deal to discuss.”

As I moved to follow him up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson reached out and squeezed one of my arms. “Thank you,” she whispered. “And bless you, sir, for what you’re doing for him and the poor Doctor.”

I patted her hand, trying to ease some of the worry on her face.

“Keep the house-boy with you for the rest of the night. And you’d best not answer the bell any more this evening, Mrs. Hudson,” Mr. Holmes called down from halfway up the steps.

“I had not planned to, Mr. Holmes. I’ll keep a kettle on, should you want any hot water for tea or coffee. Ring for it, or for breakfast.” She gave me a soft smile, and turned away to her own rooms.

Obviously Mrs. Hudson understood Mr. Holmes far better than I had any idea of. Any other woman would have been in hysterics at worst, and demanding answers at best. Mrs. Hudson had clearly heard what Mr. Holmes meant, which was _keep yourself safe and locked away in your rooms, and let me handle this._ And she had just as plainly answered _I will, don’t you worry about me. I trust you._

I think I learned more about Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson in those thirty seconds than I had in a year.  
  



	5. Queen's Indian Defence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Watson dines in less than salubrious circumstances.

## Chapter 4: Queen's Indian Defence

 

  
_  
Watson’s Journal:_

King was entirely honest about one thing. He did indeed have a most excellent cook. Or at least the food served at his dining table was exceptional. It was a pity that I did not have much appetite. My stomach was still quite unsettled from the chloroform, and my headache, while marginally improved, had by no means vanished. But even if all of these ills had not been a factor, the company was enough to put any man off his meal.

I was summoned to dinner at revolver-point. I did not recognize either of the two men who came to my attic-cell door, but they were just as attentive and wary as the pair who had escorted me upstairs. I deliberately moved more slowly than I was capable of, and made no attempt to disguise my limp. I hoped to encourage them in thinking I was harmless, possibly cause them to reduce their vigilance. It did not work then, but perhaps it might pay off in the future.

Dear God, I hope I am not captive long enough to need such long-range schemes.

The clock on the mantel chimed eleven as my guards waved me into the dining room. It was smaller than I had expected, but lavishly furnished with sumptuous fabric, dark wood, and graceful works of art. Two immaculate place settings graced the head of the table and the place immediately to its right, instead of the more traditional head and foot. The blue walls and upholstery soothed my headache a little, even though the room was extremely well-lit. It was also, disappointingly, on the first floor. I had hoped it might be on ground level, closer to the kitchen and possible escape routes, but no such luck. A hatch in one wall concealed a dumb-waiter, and all of our food came up that way.

Junian King stood by the sideboard, a wineglass in his hand. He beamed delightedly at me. “Ah, Doctor Watson! I’m so glad you could join me this evening. I do dislike dining alone. I trust you feel a little better rested?”

I felt rather taken aback by this effusive greeting. How to respond to such apparent politeness and enthusiasm, when the underlying reality was so very different? “Thank you for your concern. I found your invitation impossible to refuse,” I answered dryly.

He laughed freely. “Just so. Please, have a seat, and I shall pour you a glass. Our first course should arrive momentarily.”

I sat, more because of the pointed looks from the men with guns than through any desire to accept his invitation. King filled my glass over halfway with a rich ruby-coloured wine before pouring himself another measure from the same bottle. His eyes twinkled at me as he took a long sip from his glass, proving that the bottle was not tainted. I nodded my thanks and took a careful sip of my own.

The wine was rich and subtle on my tongue. I am no expert, but it wasn’t much of a guess to identify this as a very expensive vintage. It was also quite potent, and I made a mental note to guard myself against consuming too much of it.

“To your very good health, Doctor Watson,” King toasted me. He took another drink of his wine before regarding me with his full attention. “And a swift recovery from the overenthusiastic invitation one of my fellows gave you. I am sorry to see that your jaw is discolouring, despite the ice.”

Unthinkingly, I brought up one hand to touch the area. It was sensitive and warm to the touch, but not too badly swollen. “The mark should fade within a few days.”

“So long?” He pulled his mouth down into something very close to a pout. “I suppose so, but I do feel it, most extremely. I assure you I have had words with the man who did it and made my displeasure known. He acted quite against orders. You were not to be harmed.”

“No?” I shrugged, wishing for some of Holmes’ native nonchalance. I have none, sadly, and so replied in my usual solid British manner. “Merely invited with no chance of refusal?”

“Exactly. And when I give orders, I expect to be obeyed.” He stared at me a moment longer, and then turned his attention to the maid setting a plate in front of him. “Wonderful! Our first course smells delicious.”

It was only then that I noticed that we were both attended by female servitors. The revolver-wielding men remained in the room, against the wall, one on either side of me. I could not see them without turning around, but I could not help but feel their presence as an itching, uncomfortable reminder at all times. That, with the strangeness of having young women wait on the table, King’s constant attention and too-close presence, and my lingering drug-induced malaise, all combined to disconcert me extremely. I struggled to maintain a normal demeanour.

The first course, a clear soup, was delicious. I cautiously ate a little of it, and waited to see how my system would react. I had plenty of time to wait between bites, as King peppered me all through the first course with his observations on art, and questions about my own opinions and tastes. It all seemed innocuous enough, but if he meant to put me at ease, he failed entirely. I kept my answers brief, unimaginative, and noncommittal.

“Not much of an enthusiast for art, then?” King said affably as the women cleared away our soup dishes. “I must say, Doctor, I am a little surprised.”

“I have not had enough time in my life to make a study of art,” I said mildly. “It is a very broad subject.”

“And one that holds little interest for you, I think.” King continued to stare at me, a little smile playing at one corner of his mouth. “I suppose that is natural for a soldier such as yourself.”

An uneasy shiver ran up my spine. Something about the way he pronounced the word “soldier” had much the same dark tone as when he had mentioned the Army. “The study of medicine did not leave me much time for other pursuits. And there is little art to be found in a camp hospital, outside the art of medicine.”

“And the art of war, of course.” King stroked his moustache with one finger as his mismatched eyes bored into me.

I shrugged, unwilling to say more on the subject.

“I understand you yourself experienced the art of our military medicine first-hand, after being wounded in one of our little Afghani conflicts.” King pressed. “You were at Maiwand, I believe?”

I kept my face still and my voice calm with an effort, for I felt anything but. My service is a matter of public record. I have made no secret of it. I had, in fact, advertised it to the world in my very first published story, but it still disturbed me that this man knew of it. “I was.”

“Perhaps I could convince you to tell me something about it, later. But for now, I see that our second course has arrived, and I doubt it would be improved by discussion of military matters.” His face remained as cheerful as ever, but again I felt that I was wandering through a dangerous maze, with traps all around me.

The second course was punctuated by King’s discussion of music. It was harder for me to avoid expressing any opinions, particularly as my years with Holmes had left me with a much expanded appreciation for the classical works of Mendelssohn and Bach. But I doggedly persisted in keeping my conversation dull and my answers conventional. I did the same during the third course, where King talked of nothing but sports. By the end of that dish, I thought I saw just a trace of contempt seep through his amiable manner. His interest was no longer so focused on me, but turned towards the next course. He requested its arrival with a trace of impatience.

Judging from the way the women both struggled with the weight of the covered plates, this course looked to be the main one. I hoped it meant that I only had one more course after this to muddle through. I could feel my self-control and energy flagging under the continued strain. I was more exhausted and achy now than I had been when the meal started, and cold with the chill that comes from fatigue and injury.

The cover rattled alarmingly as the maid attempted to set the plate down in front of me. The dish tilted at an angle, and she set it down with an undignified clatter. I scarcely noticed my near-escape from having a hot dish dumped in my lap, however. All my attention focused on the raw, ugly burn on her wrist, half-concealed by her sleeve. I took her hand without thinking about it. “Good heavens, let me see that,” I murmured in my best soothing tones. Seen up close, the damage was even worse than I had thought. The burn went halfway up her forearm, and oozed fluid. “This is quite a bad burn. How did you hurt yourself?”

The maid gave me one frightened look and then refused to meet my gaze. Her eyes darted frantically between Mr. King and the floor. “It – it’s nothing, sir. I just got too close to the stove, is all.”

“It is not nothing. It must be very painful. This needs to be treated, or it could fester.” I remembered something, and tried my best to keep the irony out of my voice. “I have reason to believe that there’s ice in the house. This should be iced, and then treated.” I looked away from the burn to King, instinctively looking to my “host” for agreement. Further words died on my lips as I took in his avid expression. His eyes flickered between the poor girl’s burn, her frightened, pained features, and me. He briefly caught his lower lip between his teeth, and then licked his lips, moistening them in a manner that struck me as vaguely obscene. When he looked at me, I could see that his pupils were unnaturally dilated. They had not been so earlier, at least not that I had noticed.

I suppressed my repulsion and made myself complete my thought. “Did your men bring my medical bag along with me?”

King blinked slowly, and then gave me a most unnerving smile. “I am afraid not. However, I keep some medical supplies on hand. Will carbolic and bandages serve the purpose?”

“A bowl of warm water and cloths for cleaning would also help. Something for the pain, if you have anything suitable. And of course the ice,” I answered him. I kept my voice and hands steady, calm, authoritative, and met his gaze without showing any fear or doubt. I did not understand the crisis I faced, but I knew this was one, without a doubt.

An endless moment passed while King stared at me as if he could read my very thoughts, if only he looked long enough. Finally he gave a little laugh and looked behind me. “Of course. Sally, fetch the items the Doctor has requested at once. Jenny, bring a chair and sit down next to the Doctor. We shall have you seen to before we continue our meal.”

“Yes, sir,” both women responded at once. I wondered if I only imagined the fear in both their voices. I suspected not.

It did not take Sally long to return with the requested supplies. I treated the burned girl, Jenny, as quickly and gently as I could, aware all the while of her violent trembling. Part of it might have been pain, but more of it seemed something closer to terror. She flinched several times while I was cleaning and bandaging her burn, and only twice did I think it was in reaction to my touch. The other times corresponded exactly with her glancing at her employer. I could not spare much attention from my treatment to observe him, but the peripheral glances I caught of his face were enough to give me chills as well. He looked…fascinated, I suppose, but in a way that completely killed any remaining appetite I might have had.

“Well, then, that’s taken care of, and I trust our meal is not too cold for the waiting. You take your oath as a doctor seriously, it appears,” King said to me after I had sent Jenny on her way with a wrapped piece of ice to hold over the bandaged burn. Sally alone remained to wait on us, if you did not count the two men with guns.

“I take all my oaths seriously,” I said before I could consider the consequences. It was the truth, of course, but he did not need to know it.

“Indeed,” was all King replied, but I felt his eyes upon me the entirety of the remainder of the meal.

I was sent away almost immediately after the dessert course, which was nearly twelve-thirty by the clock. The two men escorted me back to my attic cell, their guns never wavering. Now I sit here once more by the light of my candle, trying to write myself into calmness. I fear I have fallen into very deep and dangerous waters. I only hope I can navigate them safely until I can either find my own way out, or Holmes finds me and helps me to shore.


	6. Dutch Defence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Inspector Lestrade is frustrated, and Junian King makes a housecall.

## Dutch Defence

 

 

_Inspector Lestrade:_

My bemusement lasted long after we’d left Mrs. Hudson behind and returned to Mr. Holmes’ sitting-room. Mr. Holmes hardly spared me a glance as he set the Doctor’s medical bag down next to his chemistry table. “Make yourself comfortable. Finish your sandwich, have more coffee, but do not use any more plates.” His eyes quickly darted over the table. “It is fortunate that Whitby refused all refreshment. The evidence of the table betrays the presence of two people, plus myself, not three. Take care to keep it that way. And for God’s sake, keep away from the windows and be ready to hide at a moment’s notice. Now I have a chemical test to perform, and I must think. I would be greatly obliged if you would not speak to me for the next twenty minutes at the very least.”

It was hardly what I had expected from him. I had thought that we would discuss what I might do to help him, or work with him to narrow down a list of who might have abducted Dr. Watson. But I held my peace. While he busied himself with his chemicals, his pipe, and Dr. Watson’s bag, I calmly ate my sandwich, drank coffee, and made note of all the least-likely but effective hiding places I could find in the sitting room. Mr. Holmes seemed to ignore me entirely, but when I ventured near a door, he gave me an irritable wave, spewing pipe-smoke and noxious chemical fumes like an ill-tempered dragon. I accepted the implicit permission and ventured inside.

It would have been a nice enough bedroom, if it weren’t for the incredible clutter and all the ghastly portraits of murderers on the walls. I did not dare turn on the gas, but the light from the sitting-room was enough for me to find a few more possible hiding spots.

“In addition to the hiding places you noted, there is just enough space for you to conceal yourself between the headboard and the wall,” Mr. Holmes said when I returned to the sitting-room. How he knew I hadn’t seen that, I will never know. Something about his voice made me look sharp at him. He hadn’t moved from his chemical table, but he looked twice as haggard as he had when he’d sat down there.

“It is blood,” he added quietly.

That explained the new lines on his face. “It isn’t necessarily his,” I pointed out, not because he didn’t know that as well as I did, but because I thought he needed to hear it.

“No, not necessarily.” If anything, the lines around his mouth deepened. He tapped one finger impatiently on a pad of blank telegraph forms. I wondered why he had them on his chemical table.

“Did you learn anything else?” Usually Mr. Holmes can rattle off a list of things from just the least little look at an item.

“Nothing immediately to the purpose. The mud and traces on Watson’s bag are consistent with the Kensington area where his friend practices. The paper of the note is common stationery that you could find in half the shops in London. The words have been cut out of their papers with a pair of straight scissors by a right-handed person, and glued on with common gum-paste. The words themselves are the most telling thing about the note, and even they are of very little use. From the typography, they have been cut from the most common London papers: mostly the Times and its advertisements, with a few words from the Daily Telegraph and the Illustrated London News. The only particular typeface of interest…” His mouth briefly pinched into a tight line before he continued. “Several of the words were cut from issues of the Strand Magazine.”

“The Strand?” I echoed. I didn’t like the implications of that.

“Yes.” Judging from the single snapped word, Mr. Holmes found that at least as disquieting as I did. “Unfortunately, the Strand isn’t any more useful than the other papers in telling us anything about the location of the creator of the note. All signs point to London, but there is nothing more specific than that.”

I rolled my shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension I felt building up in my neck. “What now?” I asked.

“Now? We wait on events, and do our best to prepare for any opportunities that come our way. I have already taken a few elementary measures, but I cannot do more without data.” He coolly settled himself in his armchair by the fire and put his pipe back into his mouth.

I am used to Mr. Holmes being cold, but this was well beyond reasonable. “But who could be behind such a thing?” I snapped, exasperated. “Surely you can think of someone, some reason for this.”

Mr. Holmes puffed on his pipe. “I can think of half-a-dozen reasons, and at least thirty possible persons who have the resources, nerve, and possible motives for orchestrating this kind of event.” His speech was perfectly calm, as dispassionate as if he were discussing the outcome of a game of draughts. “But I can do nothing as yet to narrow the possibilities, and the ideas I have formed do not necessarily encompass the truth of the matter. So we wait.”

The next hours were among the most interminable I’ve ever spent, and I’ve seen many a long, miserable night on watch. Early on, the bell rang two different times. Each time, Mr. Holmes jumped up and dashed down the stairs without a word or look to me, leaving me to find a place to hide. Each time he came back within a minute or two, and just sat back down in his chair, again without a word. I might have been a rug or a lamp for all the attention he paid me.

I’d rather go back to pounding pavement as a constable on a beat than endure being cooped up with Mr. Holmes in such a morose, incommunicative mood, and that’s a fact. If that’s how Mr. Holmes usually is, I don’t know how the doctor stands it. I’d known before that night that Dr. Watson is a good man, but I’d never quite realised that the fellow must have the patience of a saint.

Several times I wondered to myself just what I was doing, potentially risking my career just to sit around in that increasingly stuffy sitting-room, doing nothing but watch Mr. Holmes brood. But two things helped me keep a hold on both my tongue and my temper. The first was the thought of the good doctor himself, and how although I felt that I wasn’t doing much for him now, I was probably in the best possible place to help him when and if something did happen. I’ve seen Mr. Holmes pull enough rabbits out of his hat to have faith that he was in the process of doing so now, for all that it looked like he was just sitting there puffing like an idle steam-train. The second was Mr. Holmes himself, and how I could see his hand shake ever so slightly every time he refilled his pipe. It was the only sign I had that the waiting, this whole situation, might be harder on him than he was letting on. For a man like him, though, that was all the sign I’d ever likely see. I wasn’t about to abandon him to face this vigil alone, no matter how little he seemed to want or need my help.

I like to suppose that just my being there in the room helped him, at least a bit, but he’ll never tell me so even if it was true.

It was the middle of the night before our vigil was rewarded. I’d eventually settled down on the settee, and was in a half-doze, not truly sleeping, but gathering what rest I could. Something changed, and my eyes snapped open, all my senses on alert. Mr. Holmes still sat in his armchair, but his head was cocked to one side, his air of languor vanished. He was tensed like a cat, ready to pounce, and I rose silently to my feet.

A moment later, I heard a shuffling noise from below stairs, and then a creak on the steps. I noiselessly made my way to the best of the hiding places I’d found in the sitting room, a slight space between the doctor’s writing desk and the window, where I was just small enough to fit invisibly between the wall and the heavy folds of the curtain without exposing myself to the window (and whatever watchers might be outside it). Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Holmes give me a sharp nod of approval. I moved the fabric as little as possible as I got myself into position. By the time I concealed myself and peered out from the small gap in the drapery, Mr. Holmes had settled back in his chair. To all appearances, he was perfectly relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, one hand in his dressing-gown pocket, the other holding his pipe.

A soft knock sounded on the sitting-room door, and then the door opened. A young boy stood there, dressed as a page. “Excuse me, sir, but are you Mr. Holmes?” His voice was high and nervous.

“I am,” the detective replied without batting an eyelash, as if it was a perfectly normal occurrence to have boys breaking into his house and knocking on his sitting-room door at close to two in the morning. Maybe it was.

“There’s a gentleman below that wishes to see you. Can I tell him to come up?”

“By all means.”

The boy grinned and bowed before disappearing from my view. I could faintly hear the sounds of him skipping down the stairs, and then I heard much heavier footsteps ascending. At least two sets, if I was any judge.

The man who came in the door first was big, well-muscled, and carried himself like he was used to trouble. Worse, he had a revolver in his hand. I swore inwardly, feeling a chill go up my spine. I had no gun myself. If this man meant to shoot Mr. Holmes, there wasn’t a thing I could do to prevent it. Fortunately, he did not seem overly interested in using his weapon. His beady eyes darted around the room, taking in everything about it while keeping his gun pointed towards Mr. Holmes’ armchair. He swiftly crossed to the bedroom door and opened it, glancing around inside before closing it firmly. All this happened in a matter of moments, and then he returned to the sitting-room entrance. “All’s clear, sir.”

“Thank you.” The well-bred voice carried clearly into the room even before the other man stepped into it. “And thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes, and at such an unusual hour too. I appreciate your courtesy.”

The words were so bizarre I started to wonder if this wasn’t an extraordinary coincidence, and that this toff and his bodyguard just happened to come calling on Mr. Holmes the very night he expected a ransom demand. He certainly didn’t look like a criminal. He was a gentleman, with unfashionably long, light-coloured hair, dressed in impeccable evening clothes, and carrying a walking-stick in one hand. He looked too polished and pretty to be any threat. But then again, I’ve seen murderers who wouldn’t have seemed out of place in a church choir, and poisoners who were great society beauties. And there was something funny about this man’s eyes, something that put me off even in the inadequate gaslight.

“Do come in and have a seat,” Mr. Holmes said as cool as you please. “I would also offer one to your friend, but I suspect you would rather he remained by the door.”

The gentleman laughed. “Quite right.” He walked forward, thumping his walking-stick with every other stride, and sat down gracefully on the settee before resting the stick beside him. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is -”

“Junian King,” Mr. Holmes drawled before the other man could supply his name. “You were one of the most successful procurement agents in all of England before the trade became illegal. I believe that at one time you had ties to almost every brothel and house of ill-repute in London.”

From what I could see, the man looked pleased as punch at Mr. Holmes’ flatly-spoken words. “I had a rather flourishing business, yes, and I’m flattered to be recognized by a specialist such as yourself. Alas, times change, and I had to change my business with it. I still procure items on order, but I deal in antiquities now, and rare and unusual items that might tempt the interest of collectors.” He picked up his stick again and started toying with it.

“Indeed?” Mr. Holmes languidly raised one eyebrow. “That seems quite the change in specialty.”

“Not as much as you might think. Working on commission remains largely the same, regardless of the merchandise on order. And a keen eye for discerning objects of value, and recognizing moments of opportunity; both have always served me well.” The man grinned at Mr. Holmes and tapped his walking-stick against his leg.

Something about the words or the gesture made Mr. Holmes tighten his lips. I could almost see him bite back some hasty comment. I hardly knew what to make of it; Mr. Holmes has almost always been maddeningly collected. “And are you here on commission, then, or are you seizing one of those opportune moments?”

Mr. King chuckled. “Oh, very good, Mr. Holmes. Very direct, if not exactly clever.”

“I prefer directness in all my business dealings,” Holmes answered coolly, all of his earlier signs of temper vanished as if I’d imagined them. “I find it prevents misunderstandings, and precision in business is always preferable.”

“Misunderstandings can be quite unfortunate, I agree. They lead to all kinds of unintended consequences, which are distressing to the tidy mind.” Mr. King leaned forward, both hands resting on the head of the walking stick. “All the same, a canny businessman – such as myself – never shows all his cards. I prefer not to be too specific. It’s not good for business.”

“Neither is being so obscure that you fail to come to a point.”

I wished one or both of them would hurry up and speak plainly. I hadn’t realised it was quite so dusty behind the drapery. My eyes itched and watered fiercely. I did not dare wipe at them. I forced myself to continue paying attention to the two men by the fireplace.

“True, true.” Mr. King studied Mr. Holmes for a moment more, then relaxed back against the settee cushions, placing his stick to one side. “Well then, perhaps it will not surprise you to learn that a very rare collectible has recently come to my attention, one that I think might interest you extremely. Never mind how I learned of it, or whether I am negotiating on my own behalf or representing another party. That’s immaterial, I think you would agree. Your only interest should be in the collectible itself. A relict of the Maiwand campaign, in fact. I believe you have some interest in collecting such memorabilia?”

Mr. Holmes touched his pipe to his lips. “My collection is very singular.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they were really talking about, not with that flinty expression on Mr. Holmes’ face, or the keen one on Mr. King’s. I swallowed against the sudden dryness of my throat as Mr. King spoke again.

“Which is exactly why I thought to come to you. I could hardly think your collection complete without this.”

“Perhaps. But it would have to be in pristine condition. Unharmed.”

Mr. King pursed his lips in a moue and idly waved one hand. “Of course, or at least reasonably so. You understand that time and travel will inevitably leave a few marks. Purely surface blemishes, but…”

“Unharmed,” Mr. Holmes repeated. “And I would want proof of such, in writing, before any terms could be agreed to.” He shifted in his chair, his gaze narrowing.

For a brief moment, Mr. King’s otherwise-unwavering façade of amused gentility fell away. His moustache twitched as his lip curled up at the corner in a silent snarl. It only lasted for a second, but I felt a chill all the same. “Oh, very well. In writing, since you insist. It’s an indulgence on my part, I’m sure, but I am a good-natured sort, and I understand the concerns of a truly interested party when considering an acquisition. Of course, such interest does indicate a certain level of increased value on the part of the prospective client. Unwise of you, perhaps, before we have begun negotiations.” He smiled again, his good humour apparently restored.

Not so Mr. Holmes. He looked colder than ever. “And speaking of terms, yours are…?”

“You know, I think discussion of that can wait until after you have your proof of condition,” Mr. King said with a merry laugh. “After all, there’s no point in discussing terms before you know whether you really want it, is there?” He laughed again, a high-pitched giggle of delight that rang entirely false in my ears. “So first I will give you your proof, and then we shall negotiate. But do take care, Mr. Holmes.” Mr. King’s voice dropped, becoming entirely serious even as his face remained creased in the same amused smile. “Opportunities like this are rare, and require the utmost discretion as well as decisiveness. I strongly advise you to keep yourself available at all times. I can’t say exactly when your proof might be delivered, but I must recommend most strongly against anything that might result in a delay in your response. After all, you never know when another collector might decide to snap up an item, or a capricious owner changes his mind and decides not to offer up the object after all. Don’t let yourself be distracted by other matters, or you might miss your chance.”

“Sound advice, I am sure.” Mr. Holmes’ tone could have chipped ice. “I shall keep it in mind.”

“How delightful. It’s always nice to dispense words of wisdom to discerning ears. But as charming as this visit has been, I do believe I must go. My business is a demanding one.” He rose to his feet, beaming. “I look forward to continuing our discussion in the near future.”

“Indeed,” came Mr. Holmes’ clipped response.

If anything, Mr. King’s smile grew as if Mr. Holmes had matched his effusive demeanour. “Yes, I’m sure you look forward to it too. No need to see me out, Mr. Holmes; I know the way. A very good evening to you.” Chuckling, the man strode from the room, his bodyguard close behind him.

I heard them descend the steps, and the street door open and then close. As soon as he heard that, Mr. Holmes shot out of his chair like a greyhound and vanished out of the sitting room. He reappeared in less than a minute and strode to a window – not the one I was next to – and shoved aside the curtain to peer out. A brief torrent of profanity burst from his lips, softly spoken but filthy enough to have done a dockworker proud, and then he rested his forehead against the chilled glass.

I didn’t dare move. Something about the way he stood froze me in place. I wondered if he’d forgotten my presence entirely.

“You might as well come out now, Lestrade,” Mr. Holmes said on the heels of my thought, almost as if he’d heard me think it. “They’ve gone. Just keep out of sight of the window. I’m sure we’re still being watched from outdoors.”

I did as he said, grateful for a chance to move and breathe air that wasn’t half old cloth. “What was that all about?” I demanded as soon as I was sure I wasn’t about to sneeze my head off. “Does he have Dr. Watson, or not? And if so, what does he want?”

Mr. Holmes laughed, a single bark of bitter amusement that contained no mirth. He turned away from the window, carefully closed the drape, and slowly made his way back towards the fireplace. He picked up Mr. King’s walking-stick – I only then noticed he’d left it on the settee – and leaned against the mantelpiece. The light of the low fire deepened the shadows on Mr. Holmes’ face. “Oh, he has Watson, all right. He might wish me to believe otherwise, and indeed I cannot be absolutely certain, but every instinct suggests it.” He fiddled with the walking stick and then pointed its handle at me. “And of course he brought more proof. If he does not have Watson, he certainly knows who does.”

One good look at that handle told me what I ought to have noticed first off: that was Dr. Watson’s walking stick, with its heavy silver-plated knob. I’d seen the doctor with it many times.

“But who is Junian King, anyway?” The name meant nothing to me, and it should have. “Or maybe I should say, _what_ is he?”

“You heard me speaking with him, Lestrade. Surely you can guess.” Once he started to speak, words began pouring out of Mr. Holmes in a rapid flood, wilder than I had ever heard from him. “He’s a procurer, a criminal agent, an expert in obtaining things that other people want and selling them at the highest price. He’s never fallen afoul of the Yard directly, so you’d have no cause to know of him. And he has _never_ tried anything like this before, or I’d have had him a long time ago.”

I nearly laughed. That at least was like Mr. Holmes’ arrogance. But any urge to chuckle left immediately as Mr. Holmes continued speaking.

“It isn’t like King to be so bold, although even now you’ll notice that he never said a word that could be held against him in court. No direct threats, he never even mentioned Watson’s name. Just hints, innuendoes, and double-edged words as he gives me pieces of Watson, one at a time, and lets me imagine the rest. He sent me Watson’s doctor’s bag, a symbol of Watson’s independence, or so it might represent itself to his twisted mind. Now he leaves behind Watson’s cane, his mobility, his freedom. All implied, stakes raised and suggested without saying a word.”

Without a word, indeed. I had stood there behind the curtain through the entire conversation, and I hadn’t heard or seen a thing of real importance, to hear Mr. Holmes tell it. Not that he said as much to me, or even seemed to notice my reaction. He just kept rambling on, focused on Mr. King.

“He’s devilishly clever, I’ll give him that. He is no longer at the height of his powers, but he still heads one of the most dangerous criminal organizations in London. And he’s also one of the vilest, most depraved sadists you will ever meet.” He shaded his eyes with one hand. “He _relishes_ the pain of others, savours it like other men enjoy aged wines or fine cigars. And he likes to make it last. Do you remember those four mutilated bodies that turned up near Shadwell Basin a few years ago, the ones that had such profound scarring and bruising beneath the fresh wounds? I never could prove it, but I always suspected that was King’s work. Some of the wounds were…characteristic of the man. I’ve seen a few other examples of the marks he likes to leave on the living.”

I remembered those torn, battered, wretched corpses very well, and I shuddered. No wonder Mr. Holmes looked white and ill. He likes to berate me for my lack of imagination, and I know that compared to him, I don’t have much. In this case, though, I thought it a blessing. Even without much invention of my own, it turned my stomach, thinking of Dr. Watson in the hands of a man who could do something like that. If I had Mr. Holmes’ ability to suppose things…well. “But what does he want?” I repeated.

“I don’t know.” Mr. Holmes lowered his hand and looked off into the distance, his eyes fixed on things I didn’t even want to think about. “But whatever it is, I know I _cannot_ give it to him.”


	7. Cambridge Springs Defence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Watson waltzes with opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say that this is the highest-rated chapter of the whole story; I'd put it at a high PG-13. Specifically, in this chapter, I'm warning for: kidnapping, threats, guns, anxiety, duress, deliberate infliction of pain. Please decide to read (or not) accordingly.

## Cambridge Springs Defence

 

_Watson’s Journal:_

I slept poorly despite my fatigue. Some of this was due to the lingering aches and pains of the day, particularly in my shoulder, and some of it was attributable to my (quite justifiable) unease and anxiety over my predicament. However, the greatest contribution to my miserable, wakeful night was the bone-chilling temperature of that miserable attic cell. The cot would have been uncomfortable enough even with sufficient bedding, but the one thin blanket did almost nothing to ward off the cold. I could not get warm, no matter how tightly I curled up beneath it or how hard I shivered. By the time my captors came to my door to deliver my breakfast – and a new candle – I was thoroughly wretched, and more exhausted than when I had gone to bed. Worse, my mind felt logy, stuffed full of cotton wool and aching dully, exactly what I did not need. I wanted all my wits sharp, and instead I felt scarcely able to string two coherent thoughts together.

Much to my surprise, the two pistol-carrying men were accompanied by a third person, the burned serving girl from the previous night – Jenny. She carried the breakfast tray, such as it was: a bowl of porridge and a pot of tea. Porridge wouldn’t have been my first choice, but at least it looked warm, steaming in the chill attic air.

“Thank you,” I told her as she handed me the tray. “Is your arm better today?”

She gave me one frightened glance before dropping her gaze to the floor. “Yes, sir.”

“Hurry it up, girl,” one of the men snapped.

The poor maid practically jumped out of her skin. She hurriedly let go of the tray and scurried to collect the chamber-pot before rushing out of the room.

“Enjoy your breakfast, but don’t linger over it,” the snappish man told me. “We might be back for the dishes at any time.”

He and his companion left, leaving me puzzled. Why not simply tell me when they would be back? I didn’t understand it. Sighing, I poured myself a cup of tea and took a bite of my porridge. Much to my surprise, it was very good, and flavoured in the Scottish fashion: oats mixed with cream, honey, and if my senses did not deceive me, a generous splash of whiskey. I had not smelled it, but I could taste it and feel its tingling warmth on my tongue. I had not had such a breakfast since my boyhood. The hot porridge warmed me and soothed an aching soreness in my throat that I hadn’t even discerned was there…

 _Oh_.

I should have realised it much sooner. The fact that I hadn’t noticed brought home to me yet again how dull my wits were, but at least now I understood some of the reason why. There was nothing to be done for it, though, not here. I made myself eat my porridge and drink my tea, letting them warm and fortify me as much as they could against the coming day.

The waiting was the worst of it. I did not dare get out my journal, for I had no idea when the men might return. There was nothing in the attic cell to amuse me. I did my best to occupy myself by going over old cases in my mind, but that only brought Holmes even more to the forefront of my consciousness. He must have determined something was wrong by now, even if King had not yet contacted him. He would be searching for me, I knew. And if I knew my Holmes at all, he would be even more careless and reckless of his safety in this case than was his usual wont. Only this time, I would not be there to guard him. He pursued cases on his own all the time, of course, and usually came out none the worse for wear. Still, I could not help fretting over his welfare, worrying about him and his likely state. It was better than spending my energy in equally useless anxiety over my own well-being. Both were out of my control.

My pocket-watch ticked away the minutes, and then the hours. It was nearly noon before I heard footsteps approaching my cell, followed by the key turning in the lock. I recognized Seely at once, but the other man was unfamiliar to me. How many men did King have working for him? With so many armed men around the house, any prospects for my escape looked dim, indeed.

“Mr. King wishes to see you,” Seely informed me. “But you’re to wash up first.”

“How delightful,” I muttered. I would certainly welcome the chance to refresh myself, but I doubted they would give me a razor. I could feel the heavy growth of stubble on my face, irritating me.

Making my way down the stairs was a painfully slow exercise. My muscles were stiff, and my balance was very poor. I had to brace myself against the wall as I took each step, or I would have fallen. By the time we reached the washroom, I was shaking with effort, and could feel clammy sweat along my hairline.

“Five minutes, and don’t try locking the door,” Seely growled.

The man in the mirror looked far from my usual self. I grimaced at the wan, grubby, dishevelled reflection and did my best to revive myself with a quick toilette. By the time I was finished, my face was ruddy from scrubbing and I felt marginally more alert.

I half expected my armed escorts to usher me to the dining-room, but instead they led me to what appeared to be a study. There were no windows in the room, but many lamps, all lit. The man I didn’t recognize gestured me to take a seat in a chair next to a little leather-topped writing-table. Several sheets of blank paper sat neatly stacked on one edge, next to a large piece of blotting-paper. A fountain-pen and inkwell rested in the depressions designed for that purpose. I did not have time to examine these things further. Junian King sauntered into the room, one corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson. I hope you passed a pleasant night?”

“As well as could be expected,” I retorted.

“Good, good,” he replied with an amused chuckle, as if I had just given him a more pleasant answer. “I realise that it is impolite to ask a guest to do any work, but I must request that you perform a little task for me. I want you to write a note to your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Holmes?” The name left my lips before I could check myself. “Why?”

King shrugged, all smiles on the surface, but his mismatched eyes were hard. “Consider it a letter of introduction, if you will. I want to have a serious conversation with the fellow, but he wishes to have proof of your well-being before we begin our discussion. Ungentlemanly of him, not to take my word for it that you are unharmed, but he insists on seeing proof that you are well, written in your own hand. So I must trouble you to make the effort. In fact, I have to insist upon it, much as it grieves me to do so.”

I blinked, doing my best to keep my face calm while I tried to cudgel my half-formed ideas into some kind of coherence. “Let me be certain I understand you. You want me to write a letter to Holmes telling him I am all right.”

“Yes, quite.” King looked even more amused at my obtuseness. “A few short lines will suffice, I’m sure.”

“Not if you want Holmes to believe that I wrote them, and did not merely copy down dictation under duress,” I told him flatly. “I will write you your letter, Mr. King, but I must insist on a little time and privacy in which to compose my words.”

King stared at me, all humour vanishing from his face. “You do realise that I will read every word you write.”

“Naturally,” I agreed. “But as I also realise that this might be one of my last opportunities to communicate with him, I wish to make certain that the letter is worthy of the occasion. That will require some thought.”

A high-pitched laugh rang out, and King beamed at me, his face alight with mirth. “Oh, Dr. Watson, so dramatic! You are even more romantic in person than you are in your stories. But very well. I shall leave you here with paper and pen and privacy for – what, will half an hour suffice?”

“I do not usually write under a time limit, but I should think that sufficient.”

“Splendid. Seely shall keep an eye on you from the doorway. As long as you do not stir from that chair, you will have all the privacy you should need to compose your missive. I shall return in half an hour, and I very much look forward to reading your effort.”

Still chuckling, he left the room, followed by the man I did not know. Seely retreated to the doorway and leaned against the frame, keeping his gun aimed at me all the while.

And I set to work.

I fidgeted.

I doodled.

I chewed on the end of the pen.

I hastily wrote some words on a piece of paper, then just as swiftly balled it up and tossed it on the floor in disgust.

I dropped my pen.

I toyed with the inkwell.

I drummed the fingers of my left hand against the table.

And then I did it all over again, in different variations.

Although I appeared to pay no attention whatsoever to Seely, I always kept a watch on him from the corner of my eye. Within five minutes, his eyes took on a glazed appearance. He was clearly bored. Not quite inattentive, but as close as I could hope for. The second time I balled up a half-formed missive and tossed it away with my right hand, I extricated my mechanical pencil from my inner jacket pocket with my left. It was the work of a moment to push back the lead from the tip. I needed the pencil for my plan to work, but not to write with, not in the usual sense.

No sign came that Seely had noticed anything amiss. I kept up my antics and hoped for the best.

Almost exactly half an hour later, King returned to the room with the other guard. By that time, I had used up every single piece of paper, as well as scrawled on the blotting sheet, but my letter sat ready and waiting, folded in half and placed in the centre of the desk.

King raised one eyebrow at the chaos as the other guard moved to stand directly behind me. “Good heavens, Dr. Watson. You seem to have worked very hard indeed.” He eyed the wadded bits of paper, the blotting sheet and scraps covered with partial words and childish drawings and a particularly fine caricature of Seely standing guard, and then the folded sheet. “I trust the end results were worth all the effort?”

I shrugged and handed him the note. “I am no judge of my own writing, but I believe I am satisfied, given the current constraints.”

He opened the note, and I watched his face still as he read the words aloud, only skipping over the date I had penned in the corner.

“My dear Holmes,

I have been instructed to write to you in order to assure you of my continued good health. I am physically unharmed, but I can easily infer that I am unlikely to remain so if you do not accede to whatever request or proposition that will be put to you. In the name of our long years of friendship, I must insist that you **_absolutely refuse it_** , whatever it is. Do not dare comply with whatever they ask of you, not on your life, and certainly not on mine. I have always known the risks of the work that we do, and I have long accepted them. I do not falter now at the test, and I can only pray that you also remain steadfast. Do what you must, regardless of any consequences to me.

Believe me, my dear fellow, whatever the outcome, I will always remain,

Very sincerely yours,

John H. Watson”

He took a deep breath after he finished, still staring at the paper. Then he carefully re-folded the note and placed it in his coat pocket before turning to me. “Well, well,” he said slowly. “You surprise me, Doctor.”

“I trust you will deliver my note promptly,” I said as casually as I could. I felt my pulse pounding in my temples, but my hands remained perfectly steady where they rested on the desk.

“Brave words, to be sure, but are these truly your sentiments, I wonder?” he murmured. His gaze turned inwards and he cocked his head to one side, appearing to ignore me entirely.

“I have done as you asked.”

His eyes refocused on my face, and a thin smile curved his lips. “So you have. But your friend is so very sceptical, I am afraid I must require one more thing. Just to be certain that he knows this is your message, of course.”

“He will,” I said shortly.

“Probably so, but I do so want to avoid any further difficulties. Your cuffs and collar, please.”

The request was so bizarre, so out of the blue, I was almost certain I had misheard him. “My what?”

“Your cuffs and collar,” King repeated, saying the words clearly as if I was a five-year-old child with deficient understanding. “Come, man. They are thoroughly soiled at this point anyway, and you should change them. I have fresh ones on hand. And your friend does so love evidence.” He tutted at me when I simply stared at him. “Really, Doctor. Must I insist upon it?”

If he truly wanted them, he certainly had the manpower to wrest them from me by force, and we both knew it. Rather than endure that indignity, I loosened my tie, then undid my collar before removing my cuffs.

“The cufflinks, too,” King told me as I moved to collect them from where I had set them on the writing-table. He gave me a broad grin. “We might as well send him the complete set, don’t you think?”

I felt a wholly unreasonable pang. Although King could not know it, the cufflinks had been a Christmas gift from Holmes some years previous. “I suppose you will supply others, then, to go with the clean articles?”

“Oh, of course, Doctor. I know how important tidy dress is to a military man like yourself.”

There it was again – that chilling _something_ lurking underneath his otherwise innocuously-delivered words. My unease doubled. I already felt exposed and rather ridiculous, sitting there otherwise fully dressed but with my shirt gaping at the neck and sleeves. I would not let myself feel vulnerable, too, no matter how much that underlying tone sent a warning up my spine. I reattached the cufflinks to my cuffs and laid them down atop my collar. “I will be glad of clean ones,” I told him nonchalantly.

“And I will give them to you, for you did comply with all of my requests – at least in the letter of them. In spirit, however…” He nodded once.

Instantly, hands seized my arms from behind and pulled them back behind me, holding me firmly in my chair. Before I could even begin to struggle, King moved forward, reaching across the small writing table and placing them both on my bad shoulder. “I think you will find that it is always best to obey my wishes in the full spirit of them,” he said softly. His hands pushed under the fabric of my shirt, and then his fingers dug into my old scar with incredible strength.

Pain blazed through me, searing through the brutal grip on the ruined tissue to every part of my body. Involuntary tears sprang to my eyes, but I did not cry out. This was not due to my own merit, or some unusual strength. Injure me elsewhere, and I am like any other man. I will endeavour to endure in silence, but shock and pain can wrest screams from me, voluntary or not. My shoulder, however… I do not know if it was the absolute need for silence on that horrible retreat from Maiwand that permanently stopped my vocal chords from ever voicing another scream when I feel pain there, or whether the wounding was so severe that every last cry has already been wrung from that tissue. Either way, my throat locks up, and I cannot make a sound.

King twisted the flesh, wreaking havoc with my senses. Agony greyed out the edges of my vision, and I swayed on the edge of consciousness. Dimly, I sensed his face hovering close to mine, his mismatched eyes studying me, greedily taking in every aspect of my reaction.

“Look at you,” he breathed, nothing but wonder and delight in his voice. “Oh, just look at you! How marvellous.” All at once he loosened his grip. His hands remained under the fabric of my shirt, but stroking now, fingers running lightly over the various seams of my scar. I shuddered, nausea churning in my belly at the obscene gentleness of that touch. “Such intense pain. I can see it in your face, read it in your eyes, and yet you do not make a sound. Extraordinary.” King patted my shoulder once more, then pulled his hands away to cup my face between both of his palms. Helpless, I could do nothing but look at him as he gazed intently at my features. I have never seen such a revolting combination of emotions on any human countenance. Cruelty, avid curiosity, delight, sick pleasure, they were all there in the widened pupils, rosy cheeks, moistened lips, and broad, open smile. I fought for breath.

“Oh, my dear doctor,” he crooned. “Truly, a part of me hopes Mr. Holmes heeds your words and _does_ decide to cross me. While it would be vastly inconvenient in some respects, the rewards…” He broke off with a slight frown, and drew one hand down my cheek. “But your skin is so warm – and these tremors are not just from pain…?”

I finally managed to get a breath into my aching lungs, but could not stifle the resulting cough. King flinched back as I cleared my throat. “I do not feel entirely well,” I told him hoarsely. “Your accommodations were rather lacking in warmth, and I have been treating influenza patients all the past week…”

He practically jumped in his haste to get away from me. I observed his disgust with some satisfaction. “Seely! Take the doctor back to his room at once. Bring him extra blankets, but keep him there until I say otherwise. And keep _everyone_ who has been in contact with him out of my presence. That includes you, of course.”

“Yes, sir,” Seely gulped, and watched with wide eyes as King strode out of the room in an absolute fury. The grip behind me dropped away abruptly, and I found myself once again facing the business end of two revolvers. “Come on, Doctor. You’re going back to bed.”

 


	8. Elephant Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Inspector Lestrade acts in an irregular fashion, plans proceed, and a trap is set in motion.

##  Elephant Trap 

 

_Inspector Lestrade:_

We were undisturbed for the rest of the night, for all the good that did me. Mr. Holmes’ words rang in my ears long after he retreated to his room, rendering sleep impossible. From the irregular creaking of his floorboards as he paced, I doubt he got any sleep, either. How could he, knowing what he knew, and having said what he’d said?

Once again, our conversation played over in my head:

 

 

 _“What do you mean, you_ cannot _give it to him?” I demanded, certain that I had misheard._

_“Precisely that,” Mr. Holmes snapped. “If I give in, if I succumb to this threat to Watson in order to get him back, what do you think his life would be like afterwards?” He violently spun away from the mantelpiece and strode to his chair, then paced around it like a lion in a cage. “He would never be safe again. If word got out – and it would – he would be the target of every miscreant who wanted to gain an advantage over me. And they are legion. I could never protect him. He could never lead a normal life afterwards, not here in London, and probably not anywhere in England. He would always be under threat. I cannot do that to him. I will not.”_

_“But…” The protest died on my lips. The devil of it was, Mr. Holmes was right, as he almost always turned out to be. I could see it. I swore under my breath._

_“Exactly.” Mr. Holmes’ lips twisted in a grimacing smile that held nothing of mirth or warmth. “Besides which, even without the consequences that I foresee, Watson would never forgive me.”_

 

 

 

That was probably true, too. But as I tossed and turned on the settee, trying in vain to catch some rest, I couldn’t help but think that at least Dr. Watson would be _alive_ to resent it.

Dawn came finally, a murky morning filled with fog. I gave up any pretence of trying to sleep. I did my best to put myself to rights and work the kinks out of my back. Not long after I arose, I heard a soft knock at the sitting-room door. Before I could decide whether to hide or not, much less _do_ anything about it, the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson stepped inside with a tray.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she said quietly. “I heard you moving about, and thought you might want some breakfast. There’s coffee, too.”

I say it again: Mrs. Hudson is a treasure, and I hope Mr. Holmes appreciates what a jewel she is. “Thank you,” I told her sincerely, savouring the smells of coffee and buttered eggs. “But what about Mr. Holmes?” The tray only held sufficient dishes and silverware for one person.

“Mrs. Hudson knows that I never eat while I’m on a case.” Mr. Holmes’ voice came from almost directly behind me, and I barely managed to keep from jumping out of my skin. “I will gladly drink some of the coffee, however.” At first glance, he looked his usual self, neatly dressed and hardly a hair out of place, but a closer glance revealed the tension in his jaw and the dark circles under his eyes.

“Take at least one bite of toast with it,” Mrs. Hudson scolded. She set down the tray on the dining-table, and made short work of clearing away last night’s clutter along with setting out breakfast.

Mr. Holmes reached for the coffee-pot. “You’re taking every precaution?”

“Of course.”

“Please continue to do so.”

“Naturally.” Mrs. Hudson gathered up the last of the previous night’s things and made a dignified exit.

“Eat a good breakfast,” Mr. Holmes advised me. “Mrs. Hudson’s eggs are worth enjoying while they’re hot.” He took a sip of his coffee, and then regarded me with a half-smile. “And afterwards, I think we really must do something about your clothes.”

The infuriating man would not explain himself a word further until I’d finished my meal, which I did with rather more haste than the good food deserved. No sooner had I taken my last bite than he vanished into his room, reappearing momentarily with a small stack of folded clothes. “They’re likely too large for you, at least in the arm and the leg, but that will be all to the good,” he told me. “Hurry up and change into them.”

Bewildered, I took the stack from him and retreated into his room to do as he bid. The garments were a puzzle; too large indeed for me, by an inch or two in the limbs, yet far too short to be of any use to Mr. Holmes, and too small to belong to Dr. Watson. They were rough but respectable, the kind of clothes you might see on a tradesman or an apprentice, and showed signs of hard wear. Where on earth had he gotten them, and why did he want me to wear them?

“Better than I’d hoped,” was Mr. Holmes’ comment when I emerged wearing them. “I’d ask Mrs. Hudson to tack up the sleeves and cuffs, but it’s growing late. It’s nearly time.”

“Time for what?” I demanded.

“Time for our usual errand-boy to make his morning delivery of supplies to Mrs. Hudson.” Mr. Holmes briskly tugged at my jacket, changing the way it lay on my shoulders. “Only this morning, the delivery will be rather different. The boy will come in, and you will go out in his place.”

Excitement tingled up my spine, chasing away the cobwebs of fatigue. “Right. And where am I going?”

My immediate acceptance of his plan must have pleased him, for he gave me a grin not entirely unlike those I’d seen him give Dr. Watson in the middle of a case. “Go up the street to Marylebone Road, and watch for a cab idling near the tobacconists’ shop on the corner, driven by a very large man with a red muffler. Jump up on the back of it and knock against the wood three times. He’ll drive on for a block or two, until he feels you’re sufficiently far away from any agent of King’s. Tell him what’s happened here, and listen well to what he has to say. Depending on that…well, the boy usually makes another stop here around 11:30. Try to be back by then. If not, sometime between two and three is usual, but avoid the place if the fog has cleared, and wait until evening.”

A thousand questions bubbled up in my throat, not least how he had arranged all this while under watch without anyone (including myself) being the wiser, but there was no time to ask any of them. The downstairs bell rang, and Mr. Holmes hustled me out of the sitting room and down the stairs before I could think twice about matters. We made our way to the back door, where a lanky lad perhaps an inch or two shorter than I stood just inside the door, shucking off his muffler and coat. His young, freckled face nearly split in half with a delighted grin when he saw Mr. Holmes. “It’s all arranged wi’ the guv’nor, Mr. Holmes. Don’t half mind the chance to stay out of the weather, neither.” His thick accent was exacerbated by his obviously high spirits.

“Very good, Tom. You’ll stay with Mrs. Hudson below stairs.” Mr. Holmes handed me the boy’s coat and muffler, and I lost no time in putting them on. I made sure to bring the scarf well up over my face, as Tom had no moustache, and I had no freckles. “And your hat too, boy.” He tweaked the cap off of Tom’s ginger-haired head and dropped it onto my own.

“Oi! Mind you bring that back,” Tom told me, gesturing at his hat before handing me his half-filled satchel.

“I will,” I promised.

“Now Tom, just walk down the hall and back, and then go with Mrs. Hudson.” He turned to me as the boy started to move. “Watch him.”

I didn’t need Mr. Holmes’ instruction. I had guessed what he was after as soon as he asked the boy to move. I watched Tom swagger the length of the hall, noting the way he hitched his left hip with every step.

“Can you do that?” Holmes asked me in a very low voice. “The fog is thick enough that you need not be exact, but…”

“Close enough,” I told him. I wasn’t the mimic Mr. Holmes was, but I knew something about compensating for twisted limbs. He knew it, too, of course. Funny how one of the most observant – and occasionally rudest – men I knew had never said one word to me about my own twisted leg, or for that matter ever asked how a man with such a defect, and short to boot, had managed to get onto the force. Maybe he’d deduced the answer for himself, or more likely figured out that I’d have punched him in the face if he’d inquired, back in the early days of our acquaintance. “He skips more than runs, doesn’t he?”

If I’d surprised Mr. Holmes, he didn’t show it. “Very much so. But don’t, unless you must.”

“Just as well. I’d rather not skip at my age.” Tom came back towards us, still grinning, and I held out a hand to Mr. Holmes. “I’d best be off, then.”

He took it and pressed it firmly. He looked as if he might say something else, but I didn’t give him the chance. I pulled away and swung Tom’s delivery-bag over my shoulder before making my way out the door.

The fog was thicker than it had been the night before, but not thick enough to hide in. I could imagine eyes on me as I limped briskly up the road. I tried not to think about it, but instead imagined myself a young boy, full of spirit and energy despite my bad leg, hurrying on to my next delivery. Marylebone Road was its usual busy self. I spotted a hansom idling near the corner, the horse standing with one leg lax while the enormous coachman huddled on his seat. His bright red muffler stood out in stark contrast to his otherwise drab clothing. I scampered up behind the cab and hopped up onto its back, knocking my knuckles several times against the wood as I scrabbled for purchase.

The hansom driver flapped his reins against the horse’s back, coaxing the beast into a fast walk. I clung on for all I was worth. It had been many, many years since I last tried something like this, and I was far from being one of the lightweight street arabs that made this kind of trick look so simple. Still, I managed to hang on. Fortunately I didn’t have to last long; the hansom only went a short distance before pulling onto a much quieter street and coming to a stop. I sprang down with relief.

“I believe you’ll find yourself more comfortable up here on the box, with me,” the hansom driver called softly. His voice was much lighter than I had expected from a man of his bulk, a well-modulated and educated tenor. There was also something faintly familiar about it. “I’ve an extra coat, and we can share the rug.”

“Thank you.” I clambered up beside him and flung the black-caped coat he offered over my shoulders. It concealed nearly everything I had been wearing before, even before he tucked one side of the carriage-rug over my knees. I took off Tom’s too-distinctive cap and stuffed it inside a pocket. The driver calmly produced a bowler nearly identical to his own, and I nodded my thanks before setting it on my head. We were now the very image of a cab-driver teaching another man his trade.

He clucked to his horse, setting it off in a gentle walk before giving me the barest glance. “I must admit to some surprise, Inspector. I had not expected to see an official involved in this matter.”

I started, but bit back my exclamation with an effort. “I’m not, officially. That is, I am involved, but not as an official.”

“I see. That is, in its way, even more surprising. You will have to tell me about it sometime, but for now we must concentrate on the problem of the missing doctor.” He spared me another brief glance before returning his attention to his driving.

Most of his face was hidden by his muffler, but this time I had managed to catch a glimpse of his eyes, shining out from between the brim of his hat and the edge of his muffler. His light-grey, all-too-familiar eyes.

“Mr. Holmes?” I choked. “How – what – ?”

The lines deepened around those eyes, hinting at the smile hidden beneath the red cloth. “Mr. Holmes, yes, but not the one you mean. Sherlock is capable of any number of unusual things, but he has not yet mastered the trick of being in two places at the same time. I am Mycroft Holmes.”

“My –” My voice stuck in my throat. _Bloody buggering hell,_ I thought to myself. _There are two of them?_ “I wasn’t aware Mr. Holmes – er, that is to say, Mr. Sherlock Holmes – had any relatives in the city,” I said faintly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, of course. I’m -”

“Inspector Lestrade, unless I am greatly mistaken.”

Stunned, I nodded. _How on earth did he know my name?_ I wondered. I was used to Mr. Holmes’ trick of deducing a man’s occupation through the cut of his trousers and equally unlikely details, but I had never yet seen him pluck a name out of thin air. And I didn’t think I had my name written on my collar, or anywhere else that this Mr. Holmes could see.

Those all-too-familiar eyes swept over me again before returning to the road. He expertly merged the hansom into traffic with the smallest of movements on the reins. “I had thought so,” he murmured. “Delighted to meet you, although I would have preferred better circumstances for the introduction. Now if you would be so kind, please tell me everything that has happened, to the smallest possible detail.”

This at least was a familiar-sounding request. As we drove around the neighbourhood, I told him everything: about the arrival of the note, my offer, Mrs. Hudson’s precautions, the test for blood, and the arrival of the boy, the bodyguard, and Mr. Junian King. Mycroft Holmes asked the occasional question during my account, but mostly appeared to concentrate on navigating horse and hansom through a circuitous tour of this end of London. Streets rolled by under our wheels as I recited the entire conversation between Mr. King and Mr. Holmes, as near word-for-word as I could recall. I related what Mr. Holmes had told me afterwards, and the restless remainder of the night, and even Mr. Holmes’ refusal to eat breakfast. Finally, he waved me silent in the middle of my telling him about my switch with the errand-boy.

“Thank you, Inspector. You have been very thorough, indeed. And I appreciate the help and support you have given my brother.”

_Brother?!?_

Mr. Mycroft Holmes chuckled, a dry little laugh at odds with his massive size. “Yes,” he confirmed my thought as if I’d spoken it aloud. “I know something of Junian King, but you can assure Sherlock that I will turn all the resources I can marshal onto the problem now that we have his name and proof of his involvement. You should mention that my inquiries into the activities of the usual channels have yielded little, although this will not surprise him given your news. And you must also tell my brother that I have arranged for a blank warrant standing ready to be filled out within minutes of his providing a location, if a warrant will be useful. I have also arranged for the standby of official assistance of varying levels, should it prove prudent. I will decide that when I secure the warrant, if a warrant is needed. I will not, however, be able to accompany him when it is time to act. Not that he would expect me to under normal circumstances, but I suspect Sherlock will appreciate your stating the obvious.”

“You have...‘arranged’ for a warrant?” I echoed. In which case, despite his skill with the reins, it was clearly not possible that this man was a simple cab driver.

“I am not a cabman, no,” Mycroft Holmes admitted calmly, apparently reading my mind as easily as Sherlock Holmes often seemed to do. “Nor am I much of an adventurer. That is my brother’s line, not mine, but these are extraordinary circumstances and require equally extraordinary responses. In this case, what I can do, I will do. Tell him that, along with all the rest.”

“I will,” I promised, even as my mind raced. A lot of questions I’d had about Sherlock Holmes’ early career, and his uncanny ability to escape official notice for some of his actions, were rapidly becoming clearer to me.

“Just so,” that almost-familiar voice said. “Also tell Sherlock that I expect him to communicate with me as soon as he has anything to report and the opportunity to do so, and that I will take it very amiss indeed if he should fail to follow through with such knowledge and chance.”

“Don’t keep you in the dark, got it.” I decided then and there that Mycroft must be an elder brother to Sherlock. Only an older brother would issue a threat like that.

“…Yes. Now I shall drop you at Oxford Street. You should just have time to return to Baker Street on foot to make the return switch with the boy. Thankfully, the fog has not lifted much.”

Startled, I fished out my pocket-watch, and was stunned to discover how much time had passed. What had felt like minutes had in fact been hours. “Great heavens, I suppose I will, if I hurry.” I quickly shed the caped coat and carriage rug, and tucked the bowler under the seat before putting on the cap.

“Very good.” Mr. Holmes pulled the hansom to a halt, and I started to climb down. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?”

Those grey eyes looked down on me, and I wished I could see more of his face than just the narrow band between scarf and hat. “Keep him safe if you can. He’s reckless at the best of times, but I expect he will be worse than usual. And don’t worry too much about how you’ll explain things later.”

The last sentence confused me; you never had to explain things _later_ to Sherlock Holmes, because he usually knew them before you did. Still, I understood Mycroft Holmes’ concern well enough. “Um, yes. I will watch him as best as I may.”

“Thank you. Good morning.” He gave me a faint, polite tip of his hat, just as if this were any normal conversation, and then drove on.

The whole unlikely encounter seemed more like an absurd dream than anything else, a creation of fog and too much fancy. I tried not to doubt my own sanity as I carefully limped my way back to Baker Street.

From the rapid way Mr. Holmes made an appearance, I suspected he’d been lurking near the sitting-room door, just waiting for me to reappear. Tom and I exchanged garments even more swiftly the second time, and then the boy was on his way and I found myself hustled upstairs. “Well?” Mr. Holmes demanded as soon as the sitting-room door shut behind us.

I told him everything, of course. One of his eyebrows shot up when I mentioned Mycroft Holmes’ name, joined shortly by the other when I named him as his older brother, but he refrained from any comments until I finished my account. “Very well done, Lestrade,” he said at last. “Brother Mycroft has been busy indeed. You saw no one following you?”

“No, nor appearing to pay attention to me at all. But I did not dare look around overmuch.”

“Naturally not.” Mr. Holmes looked preoccupied, clearly following his own thought.

“What now?” I asked after he remained silent too long for my peace of mind.

“Now?” he echoed. “Now, I suggest that you change back into your regular clothes. Mrs. Hudson kindly washed and ironed your collar and cuffs and freshened your other clothing while you were out, so you should find everything to your satisfaction. And then perhaps you will be ready for a bite of luncheon, as I imagine your morning exertions have whetted your appetite.”

“And?” I demanded.

“And we wait on developments. Hopefully not for too much longer. I believe events are rapidly coming to a crisis.”

Despite Mr. Holmes’ sanguine words, noontime came and went without any further happenings, at least as far as I noticed. Mr. Holmes gave me a ferocious glare when I suggested that he join me in eating the lunch Mrs. Hudson brought up, but I did see him take a biscuit. Whether he actually _ate_ it was another question entirely, but I like to think that he might have nibbled it down in between all those cups of coffee and innumerable cigarettes.

Finally there was a pull on the bell, and shortly thereafter the house-boy appeared at the door. “Envelope for you, sir.”

Mr. Holmes practically snatched it out of the boy’s hand. “The messenger?”

“One of the regular runners from the telegraph office, paid to deliver it personally.”

“Thank you. Go back to Mrs. Hudson now.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy swiftly retreated. Mr. Holmes shut the door to the sitting room and then strode to a lamp, examining every aspect of the envelope.

“Handwritten name in pencil, no return address, ordinary envelope you could find in any London stationers, no distinguishing mud spatters or other markings. Something more than just paper inside it, though.” He carefully slit the envelope open with a pen-knife and peered inside. His eyes narrowed as he withdrew two white strips of cloth.

I saw similar objects every day. I did not need the shiny bits of metal at the ends to recognize them for what they were, and I had a sinking feeling I knew whose. “Dr. Watson’s cuffs?”

“Yes.” Mr. Holmes gently touched one of the cufflinks, and I wondered what further threat to Dr. Watson he read in this particular delivery. Whatever it was, he did not tell me, but instead returned his attention to the contents of the envelope. He pulled out a single folded sheet of paper, carefully opened it, and scrutinized its contents, his eyes eagerly flickering over the words and his nose scarcely two inches from the stationery. He bit his lips, worrying the lower between his teeth even as his eyebrows furrowed.

“What does it say?” I asked as the silence stretched on.

Mr. Holmes hardly seemed to hear me. All his attention remained riveted on the paper, and he answered like a man distracted out of his wits. “He says – but there must be more to it than this, he wouldn’t – ” He rushed to his chemistry table and laid the paper flat upon it before running the fingers of one hand over its surface, first one side, then the other. As he touched one particular corner, his fingers froze. He peered at the paper twice as intently as before, then exclaimed aloud, a high cry of triumph.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“Oh, well done, my dear Watson.” Delight illuminated Mr. Holmes’ lean face and his eyes shone like lamps. “Well done!” He hastily rummaged about on his chemistry table and procured a fine brush and some kind of grey powder. I watched in bemusement as he scattered some of the dust on the corner that interested him so, spread it about with the brush, and then did something with that mess and another sheet of paper that I couldn’t quite follow. After a moment, he held up the second sheet of paper. “Ha!” He rushed off to one of the crowded bookshelves in the room and pulled out several notebooks, still clutching that second sheet in one hand.

By this time my curiosity was practically eating me alive. I stepped over to the chemistry table and looked at the original sheet. There was no writing on the side I could see, just a grey mess of powder staining one corner. I carefully turned it over. Seconds later, I wished I hadn’t. Not because Mr. Holmes gave any sign that he cared what I read, or even noticed, but because it was clear that this message was meant for only one pair of eyes, and those were not mine. It was one of the _bravest_ things I’d ever read, but I had no business seeing it.

“He hid it under the date,” Mr. Holmes muttered, glancing up at me.

“Hid what?” I stared at that part of the paper – exactly the corner Mr. Holmes had examined so intently, and stained the other side of – but could see nothing unusual.

“The cipher. He lightly gouged it into the paper with something sharp but left no obvious marks, and then wrote the date over it, trusting that King would never notice, but that I would. And I did.” He held up what looked to me like a faint tracing of a child’s drawing of little men cavorting. “Eleven Little Camden Road,” Mr. Holmes crowed. “Watson’s told us exactly where he is.”

My astonished expression only widened Mr. Holmes’ smile. He practically skipped his way across the room and flung open the curtains to two of the windows. “Now, Lestrade,” he said, his voice ringing with excitement. “To hell with King’s restrictions and demands, and to hell with him, too; the sooner, the better. _Now_ we can act.”


	9. Exchange Variation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which actions are taken, and consequences change the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features the original prompt that inspired this whole fic, a drabble by rabidsamfan. The inspiration text appears in blue and between //double slash marks//.

##  Exchange Variation 

 

 

_Watson’s Journal:_

Seely and the other man marched me back up to my cell, shoving the muzzles of their guns into my back when I did not move as swiftly as they wished. However, speed was beyond me. Between my rising fever and the lingering effects of shock from what King had done to my shoulder, I could barely walk, much less hurry. Along the way, I tried to puzzle out King’s strange behaviour. His pleasure in inflicting pain was obvious. But had I really seen fear and revulsion in his eyes when he realised that I was ill? Or was that merely frustration and disgust, possibly at being cheated of my full reaction by my fever? If the former, maybe there was some way that I could take advantage of it, use it to help me escape.

If the latter…well, I simply had to get myself away before I once again found myself in King’s company, that was all.

Either way, the need to escape was more paramount than ever. Unfortunately, I was in extremely poor shape to make any kind of attempt, or even reason out a coherent plan.

The two men pushed me into my attic cell. I stumbled and fell, unable to keep my balance. Rather than try to get up, I simply lay there, hoping to give the impression that I was too weak to stand.

Seely swore. “Watch him, Tarbot. And don’t move from the door.”

“No, sir.”

I heard Seely’s footsteps as he pounded back down the stairs. I lay quietly, observing the other fellow from beneath mostly-lowered eyelids. Unfortunately Tarbot proved a most attentive guard. He did not move from his position in the doorway, his aim did not falter, and his attention did not wander. I found myself glad that he hadn’t been the one watching me write my letter to Holmes; I doubt I could have etched out the line of dancing men with the tip of my mechanical pencil without him noticing something awry.

Holmes. If King actually delivered my letter, I had high hopes that he would discover my message. And if – when – he did, I knew he would waste no time in coming to my aid. But there were so many armed men about the place, and Junian King was undoubtedly a monster. And while I was currently shamming the extent of my illness, I had treated enough cases of this influenza to know that if I followed the usual pattern, I was no more than a few hours from being too debilitated to accomplish much of anything. For both our sakes, it would be better if I could escape on my own. Soon.

More footsteps sounded on the stairs, more than one person’s worth if I was any judge. Shortly after hearing the creaking protests of the treads, I saw Seely return, his arms full of blankets. A second man joined the first in the doorway, keeping his revolver pointed in my direction. Even without the massive purpling around his eyes and nose, I would have recognized Beecher from the sheer malignancy of his gaze. Lastly, Jenny entered the room, carrying a tray.

“Set that down and help me get him on the bed,” Seely ordered her, tossing the blankets aside.

Jenny gave him a frightened look and did as she was told. There was barely room for the two of them to raise me to my feet and propel me towards the cot. I had briefly hoped that the close quarters might give me the chance to grab Seely’s revolver, but not only did I not see an opportunity, I could not risk any such attempt with Jenny in the room. I could do nothing but give my best imitation of a man too sick to stand, and too dazed with fever to really understand what was happening around him.

It wasn’t true, but it was closer to the truth than I could have wished. The cot beneath my aching body was still miserably uncomfortable, but a welcome change from the hard, cold floor.

“Hurry up and get the blankets over him, girl,” Seely snapped as soon as I was prone, “and do whatever it is you do with cold cloths. Mr. King wants him looked after, and so looked after he’ll be.”

Even my stopped-up nose and muddled senses could smell the pungent lavender-water Jenny sponged over my forehead after tucking me under three thick blankets. I felt foolish, having my temples daubed with floral water as if I was a fainting maiden, but I dared show no sign. Several times I saw Jenny’s eyes flicker over my face, following the path of her hands, concern and a faint trace of puzzlement creasing her brow.

“Well?” Seely asked at last.

“I’m sure I don’t know for sure, sir, but he seems awfully sick to me,” Jenny told him, her eyes cast down towards me, not looking up at the ill-tempered brute demanding answers from her.

And then, almost so fast I missed it, I saw one of her eyelids dip down and back open. The eye furthest from Seely, least likely to be seen by anyone but myself.

Had Jenny just _winked_ at me? Did she know more than she was telling Seely? Had I found an ally in this house?

Eventually they all left the room, locking me in and leaving me in peace. Left alone, I did my best to plan. I concluded that if Jenny returned by herself, I would try to convince her to help me escape, or barring that, at least take a message to Holmes, warning him about the numerous armed men guarding the house. If it was one of the others, though…just one… Thanks to King’s ‘generosity,’ I had several blankets. I could try using one of them to help my escape. Anything was better than just lying in my cell, slowly growing sicker until I was too weak to escape King’s grasp.

Time crawled by, first one hour, and then a second, each minute dragging against my senses. I fluctuated between being nearly warm, huddled beneath my blankets, and shivering with cold as my fever rose. I tried to keep my mind focused, but it was difficult. I finally resorted to setting my pocket-watch next to my rude pillow, and forcing myself to alternate minutes between listening intently for any sounds of my captors, and inwardly recounting the names of each muscle in whatever part of my body ached the most at the moment the second-hand ticked past the twelve.

In spite of my best efforts, however, I could not keep my mind from wandering. From worrying. I knew I was drifting, and that I was no longer entirely rational as the fever preyed on my fears. Would Holmes find my message? Would he remember to guard himself when coming to the house? Would he recklessly disregard all caution and common sense and –

… _was that a footstep on the stairs?_

Every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation, but I forced myself to lie still and keep my breathing even. I heard another tell-tale creak of wood, but just one. Just one set of footsteps. Just one voice, as the lock turned and the door opened.

“Dr. Watson? Mr. King wishes to –” The man’s voice broke off as I failed to react to his presence. He wasn’t Talbot, or the brute Beecher; he was one of the servant-looking fellows from dinner the previous night. “Halloa, you. Can you hear me? You must get up.”

I lay still, my eyes nearly closed, my breathing hoarse and ragged, hoping that I looked the very picture of a deathly ill man.

“Dr. Watson?” I ignored him for the moment. I strained every sense, but I could not detect any presence but his. One man. Alone. But not unarmed. I could see the glint of a revolver in one of his hands, even through my lowered lashes.

The man swore under his breath. “Bleeding hell, they said you was sick, but nothing like this.” He leaned over my cot, the gun wavering, half-forgotten as he reached out with his other hand to shake my arm. “None of this now, you – “

It was the chance I’d been watching for. I sprang from the cot, pushing off from against the wall with all my might, one blanket clutched in both hands. I flung it over the man’s head as I tackled him to the floor. I heard a pained, barking cough as my full weight landed on his midriff. I’d heard that sound too many times on the rugby field to mistake it; I’d knocked the wind clean from him. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, but I levelled a kick towards the part of the blanket I thought covered his head, just to try and be sure of him. I did not dare linger, however. I staggered towards the door, my breathing harsh in my ears, my limbs trembling with effort. The room dipped and wavered alarmingly, but I made it past the threshold. The man had left the key in the lock, and I turned the bolt with vicious satisfaction. I leaned against the wood for a few seconds, trying to slow the rapid beating of my heart. I could not fool myself into thinking that I was anything other than wretchedly ill, but triumph and adrenaline lent me strength. I took one more fortifying breath and then made my way to the stairwell.

Three revolvers greeted me, all aimed at my heart.

“Well, well, Doctor.” Seely’s eyes glittered at me, anger and malice in their depths. “Mr. King wanted to know if you were truly as bad off as you seemed. He’ll be delighted to know that you’re feeling so much better, although he’ll be disappointed that you turned up your nose at your nice room.”

Too late, I realised I had fallen into a deliberate trap. Rough hands seized me, Beecher grabbing one arm and twisting it behind my back while a man I did not recognize seized my other and held it out in front of me. Seely pushed up the sleeve of my jacket and my still-cuffless shirt, grinning at me. “Mr. King gave us some specific medication for you, too.”

I barely had time to comprehend what was happening before he jabbed a hypodermic needle into my arm. He depressed the plunger, discharging who-knew-what into my bloodstream.

“Now Doctor, since you didn’t like your old room, I’ve a better place for you.” Beecher and the other man hauled me between them, as an altogether familiar icy fire spread outwards from my arm. _Morphine_. The fire was quickly followed by numbness radiating from the injection site as the men dragged me to another part of the attic entirely.

Seely reached down and pulled up a trap-door that I hadn’t even noticed until he lifted it. Below, I could see an open crate-like space. Crate-like…or coffin-like. It was just barely large enough for a man, and I suddenly knew exactly what they intended.

I struggled, but I was no match for them, even without the morphine rapidly deadening every sense. They forced me into the box and closed the trap-door, leaving me in cramped darkness. I repeatedly shoved at and pounded on the door, to no avail, until my arms would no longer obey my commands.

 

_Inspector Lestrade:_

You get used to things moving quickly when Mr. Holmes is involved. When he’s on a case, he’s often a whirlwind in human form. But even so, even knowing what he can be like, I found myself panting just trying to keep up with the man and the storm of events he launched by opening those two particular curtains in his sitting-room. It was something less than five minutes after he’d done it, with him flying around the sitting room, discarding his dressing gown and putting on his coat and rummaging around in his desk and on his chemistry table, and me still demanding explanations which he blithely refused to give (or at least plain and obvious ones), when there came two quick pulls on the bell, followed by one long one.

“Ah,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “Here’s part of your answer, Lestrade.” He hastened down the stairs to answer the door, and I followed right on his heels.

A raggedly-dressed young man stood on the doorstep. Too tall to be classified a street arab, although he’d probably been one not too far in the past, I’d have thought him a young tough and stepped carefully, except for the proud grin splitting his face and the obvious worship in his green eyes when he looked at Mr. Holmes. “All accounted for, Mister Holmes. Th’ boys are sittin’ on all three o’ them. They won’t be goin’ nowhere.”

“Excellent. No one was hurt?”

“None of us,” the fellow replied with a cheeky grin. “Yer watchers mightn’t say th’ same.”

“And you’re sure you found all of them?”

The fellow huffed, a decent imitation of the sound Mr. Holmes himself made when someone asked him a question he considered obvious. “O’ course I am.”

“Good. Keep them fast until I give other instructions.” He handed the boy a small stack of coins, and the fellow practically capered with glee before dashing off.

Mr. Holmes closed the door behind him, and then rang the bell for the house-boy. The lad appeared within moments, with Mrs. Hudson not far behind. Mr. Holmes put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out some of the telegraph forms he’d scribbled after opening the curtains. “Take these to the wire office immediately,” he ordered. “Don’t bother to wait for a reply, just come straight back here to Mrs. Hudson.”

The house-boy took them and dashed away.

“There’s news?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Oh yes.” Mr. Holmes gave her a thin smile, but a genuine one. “With any luck, we’ll have Watson safe and back with us in time for tea.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled in return, but I could see she was still worried. “I’ll have something substantial prepared. Be careful, Mr. Holmes.”

Mr. Holmes merely nodded politely at her and then flew out the front door, whistling for a cab. I scrambled after him. Moments later, we were inside a hansom and rattling towards Little Camden Road as fast as the cabbie’s horse could take us.

“Here, Lestrade.” Mr. Holmes’ coat-pocket gaped wide as he pulled yet another object out from it. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Holmes’ hair-trigger inside its depths, before my attention fixed on what he held out to me: Dr. Watson’s revolver and a spare handful of bullets. “You might need this.”

“I hope not,” I muttered, but I didn’t hesitate in taking the gun and ammunition. I checked it as carefully as I could in a moving hansom, before putting the gun and the spare bullets into my own coat pocket. The reminder of possible danger ahead, and Mr. Holmes’ precautions against it, brought to mind another cautionary set of words. “You’ve told your brother where we’re going?” I guessed.

Mr. Holmes looked sour, but nodded. “And asked him to execute the warrant. The neighbourhood is a perfectly ordinary one, which makes me all the more suspicious that we might need extra assistance.”

“But we’re not waiting for them before going there.”

“No.” A wild light gleamed in the back of Mr. Holmes’ eyes. More contained, perhaps, than it had been when I’d first seen it, the moment he’d read that newsprint-letter note, but it still lurked in the depths, smouldering. “We’re going to do a little reconnaissance. I will _not_ leave that house unobserved for a moment, not while Watson’s in there. Not until we get him out.”

Which is how I came to be idling against the back gate of the house diagonally across from number 11, smoking a cigarette and doing my best to look as if I belonged there while Mr. Holmes prowled around who knew where. We had already walked the stunted length of Little Camden Road, having left the hansom the next street over, and made one passing inspection of the front of the place. Mr. Holmes wanted to see every aspect, of course. I had wanted to go with him, but I freely admit I’m no match for Mr. Holmes when it comes to going unseen, or for vaulting over back garden fences for that matter. So I stood there, trying to remain calm, keep an eye out for Mr. Holmes, keep my other eye on the house without looking like I was doing any such thing, and make my cigarette last as long as possible.

A large delivery van turned onto the street, pulled by two draft horses. It came to a stop just short of where I stood. The driver sat calmly on the high seat while a nimble young man in tradesman’s clothes jumped down, a batch of papers in his hand.

“I’ve the warrant, Inspector,” Stanley Hopkins said in a low voice, “and ten constables in the back of the van. We’re ready the moment you give the word. Where’s Mr. Holmes?”

“He’ll be back in a moment,” I said faintly, almost past surprise.

Hopkins nodded, pretending to study his papers. “He’s involved too, of course.”

I nearly asked him what he meant, but remembered in time that I was acting the part of an idler, and merely blew a cloud of smoke.

Much to my surprise, Hopkins flushed. “I’m sorry, Inspector, I shouldn’t have said that. We’re not supposed to know.” He gave me a sidelong look, and I was shocked to see some of the same worshipful expression in his eyes that he usually turned on Mr. Holmes. “But I saw the Superintendent after the man left his office, and I overheard… Well. It’s true, isn’t it? That’s why you weren’t on shift this morning. You’ve been helping Mr. Holmes on a case for _Whitehall_.”

 _Definitely not a cab driver_ , I thought to myself. Suddenly Mycroft Holmes’ words made much more sense to me: “And don’t worry too much about how you’ll explain things later.” He hadn’t meant explaining things to his _brother_ , but to the _Superintendent._ “I can’t say anything about that,” I told Hopkins firmly, which had the advantage of being true, although not for the reasons that he thought.

“Of course not.” Mr. Holmes’ voice came from almost directly behind me, and I nearly choked on the stub of my cigarette. He crouched just behind the wall I leaned against. I had no idea when he’d gotten there, and no time to wonder, for he started speaking rapidly. “Hopkins, get your men ready, and warn them to watch themselves. I’ve seen at least two men who looked to be armed. And this neighbourhood is very close to one end of the Camden Catacombs. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if King chose this house because it has subterranean access to that network of tunnels. We could have a nasty surprise from below.”

“Or find our quarry escaping like rats down a hole.” That possibility bothered me a good deal, but not half as much as the idea of the villains dragging Dr. Watson with them.

“Exactly.” I didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know that Mr. Holmes was having the same dark thoughts, or to guess that he would do anything necessary to protect Dr. Watson. I’d have to look double-sharp to keep him safe, for the doctor’s sake as well as his own.

“Understood, Mr. Holmes. I’ll tell the men.” Hopkins strode towards the back of the van.

Mr. Holmes reached into his coat pocket and drew out his gun. He practically vibrated with tension, like a greyhound just waiting for the signal to run. “Ready, Lestrade?” Unlike his body, his voice was perfectly calm.

I fingered Dr. Watson’s revolver, safely tucked into my pocket. “Ready, Mr. Holmes.”

Hopkins reappeared from where he’d vanished behind the van, and looked expectantly towards Mr. Holmes.

“And – now!” He dashed forward, and I followed hard on his heels, Hopkins and his men just a few steps behind.

 

_Watson’s Journal:_

//The pain had been an old friend, as familiar as the lullabies of my childhood. It proved my existence, kept me struggling against my abductors. The morphine put an end to that, denying me any touchstone to reality as neatly as it denied me all hope of escaping from under the attic floorboards. I drifted in my wooden coffin, only vaguely aware of police whistles and the crack of gunfire.

"Watson?"

I heard my name, distantly. Had I been in possession of my body, I might have tried to answer, but as it was I could do nothing but wait.//

“Watson!”

That voice again, calling me, tugging at my consciousness even as drugs and illness sucked me under. Dimly, my mind put a name to that voice, and I tried to force it from my lips.

“Holmes…”

A cracking sound, very different from gunfire, came from somewhere above me. More voices, all jumbled together, further confused my drowning senses. Holmes’ voice, and another voice I thought I recognized, and several others, all noise, no sense. I could not cling to the voices as an anchor. I could not fight the undertow pulling me down into darkness. Everything was gone.

I faded away.


	10. Epilogue: Two Knights Variation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lestrade returns to Baker Street, and Junian King makes his final move in this game.

##  Epilogue: Two Knights Variation 

 

 

_Inspector Lestrade:_

Between one thing and another, it was near a week before I found myself back in Baker Street. I came round in answer to the note on a dreary London afternoon, the kind that manages to seep rain into your clothes no matter how well you dress against the weather. I felt tired, and achy, and _old_ as I slowly made my way up the familiar staircase.

In contrast to my rather bleak mood, the sitting-room was warm and cheery. The gas was lit against the murky gloom outside, and the fire on the hearth blazed high with extra coal. Best of all, both chairs by the hearth-side were occupied, and two very different smiles greeted me as I walked through the door. Mr. Holmes’ was barely a turn-up of his thin lips, but that was about as effusive as a warm handshake from another man. As for the other…

“Hello, Inspector,” Dr. Watson called, his pleased grin lighting up the room like a ray of summer sunshine. His voice remained rather hoarse, but his eyes shone with good humour. He started to lift one corner of the lap-blanket across his legs, clearly intending to stand and greet me.

“Please, Dr. Watson, don’t get up on my account,” I told him hastily. “It’s good to see you looking so well.” That was something of an understatement, given that the last time I’d seen him, he’d more resembled a corpse than a living man.

He might have been a corpse in truth, if we hadn’t found him when we had. When one of the constables had turned up the doctor’s broken pocket-watch in an attic cell, but not the doctor himself, I felt certain that we’d been too late, that the villains had either already moved him or that they’d escaped with him down into the catacombs. As Mr. Holmes had guessed, the house indeed had access to that subterranean maze – not just one entrance, but _three_. And from the look on Mr. Holmes’ face when he saw the watch, he feared the exact same thing I did.

Thank God for that housemaid. I thought she’d just been having hysterics in the kitchen corner, brought on by Mr. Holmes’ ransacking the place, searching for escape routes into the catacombs. But something about what she was doing caught his attention somehow. He’d abruptly ordered all three of King’s servants removed from the room, but he’d gestured for me to take her in a different direction from the other two.

“Search the attic again,” she’d hissed under her breath as she rubbed gingerly at her bandaged wrist. She was too frightened – and too wary of her fellow servants – to say more, but that was enough for me.

So we did. Mr. Holmes fairly tore apart the cell where the watch had been found, calling every so often for his friend at the top of his lungs, even going so far as to rip the cot free from its bolts on the floor. Nothing, and I’d just about decided the maid had sent us on a wild goose chase, when Mr. Holmes froze as if he’d heard something. I have no idea what it was, but suddenly he swore like a soldier and darted out of the cell.

“Fool that I am – she did not mean the cell. The rest of the attic! Search the rest of the attic!”

“Lestrade.” Mr. Holmes’ voice broke me out of my reverie, and I noticed both men were looking at me quizzically. Mr. Holmes raised his eyebrows, almost as if he knew what memories had crowded my mind, but he merely gestured at the settee. “Pray have a seat. Would you care for a brandy?”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” I quickly sat down in an attempt to hide my embarrassment. “It’s very damp out, and a brandy sounds just the thing to take off the chill.”

Mr. Holmes rose from his chair and made his way to the tantalus. I turned to get a better look at Dr. Watson. “How are you feeling, Doctor?”

“Quite a bit better,” he assured me. “I still have a touch of a cough, but other than that, I am perfectly well.”

“Better, yes, my dear Watson, but not yet well,” Holmes contradicted. “Dr. Anstruther only allowed you out of bed this morning, and he wants you to remain indoors until the last of your cough is gone, or the weather improves.”

“If I wait until the weather changes, I’ll be stuck indoors for months, Holmes,” Dr. Watson retorted. “And I’ll have perished from sheer boredom.” He looked at me hopefully. “Tell me what’s been happening, Inspector.”

I did my best, dredging up what gossip from the Yard I thought might interest him without exciting him too much. Seeing him up close, I could tell that the doctor had lost weight. His face was thinner than I remembered, and his dressing gown looked loose. So I tried to amuse him with Hopkins’ latest blunder, and the details surrounding a series of petty thefts in one of London’s most exclusive clubs. I did _not_ tell him of the very interesting conversation I had with Mr. Mycroft Holmes, summoned to his cramped office in Whitehall two days after we found Dr. Watson, or of the outraged ire in Gregson’s eyes every time he saw me at the Yard.

True to his nature, Dr. Watson listened politely and asked questions in all the right places, but I could tell that he had other matters on his mind. “That is very interesting, Inspector,” he said finally. “But I was hoping you could tell me something of what is happening with…my case.” He gave Mr. Holmes a half-humorous, half-annoyed look. “Holmes has hardly told me anything.”

I couldn’t help but look over at Mr. Holmes. He gave me a noncommittal shrug and handed me my brandy. Given his lack of a negative, I went ahead and answered Dr. Watson’s question. “Well, most of them are in Newgate, of course, awaiting trial on a number of charges. One of them is still in hospital, but he’s expected to recover. Not that he’ll live long, even if he does survive his wounds. There’s no shortage of evidence of his guilt.”

“Which one is that?” Dr. Watson wanted to know.

“A fellow named Beecher – a large man with a half-broken nose. Do you remember him?”

The doctor’s face grew thoughtful. “I remember him. He wasn’t in need of a hospital the last I saw of him, though. What happened to him?”

“He took a bullet to the arm,” I said dryly. I carefully did _not_ mention that I’d put it there, or that he’d had a gun aimed at Mr. Holmes’ unsuspecting back at the time.

“Ah.” Maybe I just imagined the satisfaction I heard in that simple syllable. Dr. Watson certainly didn’t linger on the subject. “There was a maid in the house – well, at least two actually – but one had a rather bad burn that I treated. Her name was Jenny. I don’t suppose…?”

Mr. Holmes interrupted before Dr. Watson could finish his question. “She seemed to want a change of scenery. It turns out she is from the country originally, and had a strong desire to leave city life and return to a more rural setting. I believe she accepted the offer of a position in Norfolk, in the household of a philanthropic widow who knows how to appreciate loyalty, and understands the need for fresh starts.”

For a moment Dr. Watson looked completely blank, and then a radiant smile illuminated his features. “That was very good of you, Holmes,” he murmured. “But how did you –”

The rest of Dr. Watson’s words were lost to a dreadful-sounding cough. He practically doubled over with the force of it, and his face turned red as he struggled to control his breathing. Mr. Holmes was beside his friend’s chair in a flash, his hands upon the doctor’s shoulders, easing him upright. His voice was calm, murmuring steadying words, but I saw a brief spasm of fear darken his countenance. I might not have recognized it for what it was, had I not seen it full-force in that attic, when he’d found a trap-door and prized it open only to see Dr. Watson lying senseless and horribly still.

It made me blush to remember it, but the shock of seeing that look on Mr. Holmes’ face froze me in my tracks. I made no move to help him, and neither did anyone else. I know that Mr. Holmes is a stronger fellow than he looks, but it should have required at least two men to lift Dr. Watson out of that grave-like depression. Yet he did it alone, and easily, as if the doctor weighed no more than a child. Within moments he had him laid on the attic floor, his head cradled carefully in Mr. Holmes’ lap as the detective searched frantically for signs of pulse and respiration. That terrible, set look did not leave his face until he found what he sought, and even then, traces of it lingered, for Dr. Watson remained insensible no matter how frantically his friend called his name.

Shock paralyzed me then, but nothing held me now. The tantalus contained water as well as spirits, and I soon had a glass in hand, ready to give to Dr. Watson as soon as his fit eased.

“Thank you,” he gasped at last as his coughing fit passed. “And I beg your pardon.”

Mr. Holmes and I shared an exasperated look. “No apologies are needed, Doctor,” I told him as Mr. Holmes finally returned to his chair. “I am glad you are feeling better, but I fear that I have tired you out. I will take my –”

The door to the sitting-room opened, and the three of us turned in our seats to see Mrs. Hudson enter the room. She held a plain white envelope. “I just found this propped against the front door, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “And given recent events, I thought I had better bring it directly to your attention.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Mr. Holmes rose and swiftly took it from her. She smiled and left the sitting room, closing the door behind her.

For a long moment he stood there in silence, turning the envelope over in his hands. Finally Dr. Watson spoke. “Are you going to open it, Holmes?”

Mr. Holmes started out of his reverie. “Just examining it first, Watson.” He retrieved a letter-opener from a nearby desk and returned to his chair by the fire before slitting open the paper.

There was no note. Instead, Mr. Holmes pulled out a single piece of rolled-up, stiff, white fabric. One end was ragged. In the centre of the roll was a carved piece of ivory.

“A chess piece?” I guessed, peering at it as it lay in Mr. Holmes’ palm.

“A king.” Dr. Watson’s voice sounded even more strained than before, and he closed his eyes as he rested his head against the chair-back. “He got away, then. I had wondered.”

“You didn’t know?” I blinked, surprised.

“Holmes never said anything. I assumed that meant one of two things: King had either escaped, or…” His voice trailed off into silence.

I had no trouble following his unspoken thought: _King had either escaped, or he was dead._ Possibly _or Holmes had killed him_ , which might very easily have happened, had Mr. Holmes come across Mr. King after finding Dr. Watson more than half-dead from drugs and fever.

“And the bit of cloth?” I asked, remembering that Mr. King’s missives all had multiple meanings.

“The collar from my shirt, I would guess,” Dr. Watson answered, opening his eyes again. “He took it from me at the same time he took my cuffs and cufflinks.” He mustered a smile. “I must say I was glad to get those cufflinks back.”

“Half the collar,” Holmes corrected, running one finger along the ragged edge. “It’s been sliced in half by something. Judging from the end, most likely a jack-knife or large pocketknife with an insufficiently sharpened blade.”

“But what does it mean?” I couldn’t help asking the question, even as I realised that Mr. Holmes probably wouldn’t answer.

He surprised me. “I cannot say for certain, but I suspect this is Junian King’s way of conceding the game, but not the match.”

Silence fell as we each contemplated that possibility. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson looked at each other, and I could see some powerful communication pass between them, some shared thought or emotion that I could only guess at.

“You’ll find him, Holmes,” Dr. Watson said at last. “You’ll find him and put a stop to all of this. And we’ll be ready for him.” His hoarse voice rang with perfect confidence.

Mr. Holmes blinked, and then looked down at the chess piece he held in his hand. “Yes.”

The atmosphere in the room threatened to become uncomfortable. Once again I was an outsider, watching a silent conversation between the two men that I would never understand. And while that was as it should be, it didn’t make it any easier to sit through.

I set down my brandy-glass with a clink. “Of course we will find him. It might take time, but we at the Yard always get our man. Sometimes with a little help, admittedly, but we always get there in the end.”

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson both stared at me, and I cracked a smile. On the one hand, I really wasn’t too worried. With _both_ Holmes brothers hunting him down, not to mention all of Scotland Yard, I fully expected that we’d be seeing Mr. King inside of a jail cell very, very soon. On the other hand, I suspected I wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t sleep well until the man was safely in custody, but I couldn’t exactly say so to their faces.

So I settled for what I could say, which also happened to be the truth. “In the meantime, Mr. Holmes, I could do with a second brandy.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted April through June, 2011


End file.
